


Assassin's Creed III Novelization

by MirrorandImage



Series: Assassin's Creed Novelization [8]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: American Revolution, Childhood Trauma, Connor Needs A Hug, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Historical Accuracy (Mostly), Homestead, In several permutations, Novelization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2020-08-11 10:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 394,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: Desmond has at last reached the precursor site, and now he must dig through the memories of Ratonhnhake:ton to find the key to open the door. What lies beyond, only Juno can say. Rated for period language.





	1. A New World

**Author's Note:**

> After many long (long, long) discussions, the two of us have decided to go with slightly more period-accurate language. The reason why that bumps the rating automatically up to M is simple. Back then there was no concept of racial slurs. People were referred to regularly by their skin color.
> 
> One of Ubisoft's great strengths is creating a sense of place in the AC franchise, and they have proven to have the brass to look at historical conflicts such as the third crusade and the American Revolution unblinkingly; addressing the causes of the conflict and – in the case of AC3, giving a beautifully nuanced, deep, and complicated understanding of what freedom means to different people. What they were more hesitant to do, however, was talk about slavery, racism, classism, and all the prejudices that were inherent with the setting of the revolutionary war. Though we would like to lay blame on Ubisoft for that, it is a trend that happens in broader media: it's just safer not to talk about the things that are so universally considered shameful. Slavery in America is reduced to shorthand for bad guys in period dramas, whittled down to at best one scene to establish whatever it's supposed to do; the ubiquitous near-extermination of Native Americans isn't even talked about, and these days nobody even realizes that it was illegal for women to be educated more than barebones basics to run a farm.
> 
> Ubisoft, in AC3, touches these issues but doesn't really explore them. Achilles has two different conversations about his skin color; Haytham has one scene defending his son's biracial status, and Connor himself comments on how limited the term "freedom" is classified to. What disappoints us is that with the breathtaking settings of Boston and New York, much more could be done. It's not a classic whitewash of history that so many forms of media do these days but it is a missed opportunity.
> 
> And so in respect of that we will endeavor to not shy away from those real facts about history. Achilles and other will be referred to by racial slurs, Connor's biracial heritage will give him sources of conflict, and British classism and arrogance will run rampant throughout, simply because it did at the time.
> 
> It was sad, disgusting, and both of us feel like taking a shower every time we type the n-word or call Connor or Ziio the r-word. We may not like that part of American history – and nobody should – but we're not going to sweep it under the rug. We have strived to make the utilization of such language brief, historically accurate, and non-offensive, which is difficult when the words themselves are offensive. We hope that this is understood. Remember, if such language makes you uncomfortable, feel free to hit the back button.

_ Used to be when people talked about the end of the world, we locked them up or laughed them off. Sometimes both. But we never took them seriously. Maybe we should have. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Better to start at the beginning – with the abduction of Desmond Miles. My son. This... boy had no ambition. No direction. No plans for the future. What he  _did _ have was a heritage. One he chose to deny. It nearly cost him his life. He was captured and imprisoned. Those who took him believed he could help them find something.  _

_The Apple. _

_One of several artifacts we call Pieces of Eden. Bits of ancient technology scattered across the globe. Some hidden. Some found. All of them dangerous. Most are held by a single group – the same group that now had Desmond. You know them as Abstergo Industries. We know them as the Templars – as the enemy. We've been fighting them for thousands of years. Even longer if you believe the stories of their origins. I do. After all, I've seen the truth. _

_That's the beauty – and the horror - of the Animus. _

_A device that allows us to enter and experience the lives of our ancestors. It holds the power to change everything. To show us history the way it _really_ happened. Up until its creation – to the victor went the spoils – went the truth. _

_We're trying to fix that. To free minds and bodies both. But there's only so much we can do. And the Templars have the upper hand these days. But something larger than the Assassins and Templars is approaching. _

_Bigger than all of us. _

_And if we can't find a way to stop it – these next few weeks will probably be our last. _Everyone's_ last. In the end, it all comes down to him. _

_To Desmond. _

_Through the Animus he discovered his heritage. Explored the lives of his ancestors and uncovered their secrets. When that was done, he trained. He used another ancestor to provide decades of experience in the span of a few days. It worked. We think. We hope. Soon though – soon we'll know. That ominous date fast approaches. December 21, 2012. None of us knows what it will bring – only that this is where they want us to be when it does. _

_They've been guiding us, in their own fractured, frustrating way. Those voices from the First Civilization, The Ones Who Came Before. A precursor race of immense power and uncertain motives. They're the ones who made the Pieces of Eden. This is where they've led him. And through him, us. He stands at the entrance to this long-lost place, armed with the knowledge of Altaïr and the abilities of Ezio. He holds in his hands the Apple of Eden. And we stand at his side ready to support him however we can. _

_His name is Desmond Miles and he has brought us to the end._

* * *

His name was Desmond Miles. And this was the first time in almost two months that he could say that with absolute and complete certainty. Desmond shook his head. Who'd have thought. Back in August, his life was going the same way it had been for years. Get up, go to work, keep everyone at a distance, go home. Just an everyday Joe Average. Well, if one didn't include his upbringing. Then, once September started, his life suddenly involved kidnapping, escaping, conspiracies, betrayal, death, and insanity. And that didn't even get into what he'd seen from _other's_ lives.

The Animus, a sci-fi machine that actually existed that allowed people to relive the lives of ancestors. Desmond had been through three different lives. Four, if one included his own. The first had been Altaïr, back during the Third Crusade, where he'd watched his ancestor fall from grace and fight back to his position and cleaning out traitors until he became the Grandmaster of the Order. He'd seen almost the entirety of Ezio's life, from tragic family deaths, the quest for vengeance, losing everything, rebuilding, and finally finding an ounce of happiness. And, most recently, he'd seen the angry, resentful, complicated life of Clay Kaczmarek, a distant cousin of his from one of Ezio's many illegitimate children, and Clay's recruitment and eventual death.

And yet, despite living these lives, knowing them so intimately, Desmond was finally himself. There was no Altaïr bleeding through, or Ezio, or Clay. He was only himself. After he'd gone insane - not knowing who he was because of the Bleeding Effect - while he was in a coma, his mind had partitioned off all the personalities he'd experienced, blocking them off so that he didn't go crazy again. Now he could access what he needed, when he needed it, and then leave it all behind when he chose to. He had been meditating, sorting out his access since he'd woken from the coma, an exercise that one of Clay's therapists had recommended that, while it hadn't worked for Clay, Desmond had enough "visualization exercises" via the Animus to picture himself back on that island in the Black Room and access the doors that lead to the memories of his partitioned ancestors.

He'd learned a lot about what was happening. Shortly before he'd gone insane, he and Ezio had found a coordinate. Desmond never learned where it went; it was simply a latitude-longitude reference he never looked up, since he didn't have much sanity left. But it was apparently a very specific place in upstate New York. Shaun and Rebecca, who had helped him escape from Abstergo and been with him since, had met up with William, Desmond's father, and had snuck out of Italy to go to the coordinates.

Unfortunately, they couldn't fly straight to Buffalo or Albany or even any of the airports in New York City. Their flight had been diverted, and they'd landed at Hartfield in Atlanta. Why had they been diverted? Apparently, while Desmond was in his coma, climate change had decided to bat humanity on the head _again_ and developed a Superstorm known as Sandy. The day prior it had finally made landfall, crushing, pummeling, and all around devastating New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, and was still raging further to the west through Pennsylvania.

Reports over the radio of the van were talking about massive power outages up and down the east coast and much, much further inland, a fire raging unchecked in New York City, debate on if floodwaters had gotten into New York's subway systems. Of course, the local death tolls were also being broadcast through every state they went through as well as heroics. North Carolina lost three people the storm, and loved talking about how the Coast Guard had saved fourteen of the sixteen people on board an old boat ninety miles off Cape Hatteras. Virginia was still embattled with falling snow in the mountains, and the deeply right-wing conservative Governor dared to pay a compliment to President Obama and how "delighted" he was with Obama and FEMA's rapid response. Luckily, nobody had died in Virginia.

They were, however, forced to pull over and stop once they started to drive through Maryland, much to William's distress. What was supposed to be a simple, if long, sixteen hour drive was now being interrupted by the damage of Superstorm Sandy.

"We should keep going," William growled. "We shouldn't stop for anything."

Shaun, who had been driving, turned his exhausted eyes to the back of the van, and Rebecca, who had maps spread out around her along with map apps on her tablet that showed traffic updates from the damage that surrounded them, turned and glared.

"Would you like to drive, mate?" Shaun asked acidly. "Perhaps _you_ can avoid all the debris, downed power lines and detours _in the dark._"

"Or maybe you'd rather be navigator," Rebecca added. "Would you like to calculate the best route around the flooded roads, emergency detours _and_ avoid the usual cameras and Templar shit _in real time_ while giving directions that are somehow _clear_?"

William glared at them both, his disappointment heavy around them.

"Or maybe, Dad," Desmond said quietly, "you'd like _me_ up in front doing one of those jobs."

William deflated. "Fine. Is there a good motel nearby?"

"Oh, really?" Shaun growled, "Really, a motel? Where refugees from the coastline have gone after evacuation? Or maybe where relief workers might be staying before getting to where they're needed?"

William didn't say anything. He just turned and started pulling out the sleeping bags. Desmond stood and helped cart some of the boxes over to one side so that they could pretend that there'd be room on the floor of the van for the cramped sleeping that they were going to have to do. With still steady wind gusts and the occasional rain, it was simply better to stay in the van. William, unsurprisingly took first watch.

The following day they went through Maryland, listening to the death toll steadily rising towards double digits, and much discussion on how the storm surge had faced the perfect confluence of events to devastate Maryland and New York City. With winds blowing the surge west, along with high tide, there were certain towns that didn't have a chance. In New York City, they had Long Island to contend with, as the winds blowing west, with high tide, funneled all the water in Long Island Sound in only one direction. The Big Apple.

Eastern Pennsylvania, particularly near the New Jersey boarder, was a mess. Rebecca had them back track three times to avoid downed trees and power lines as she learned about them from her tablet and double checked back roads along the maps spread out on the dashboard and her lap.

"Why not use your tablet?"

"And leave a digital trail of where we're going?" Rebecca gave a wan smile. "Old school is better this way."

On the radio, Pennsylvania officials were also mentioning death tallies in the double digits, and the devastation that was still going on to their west. Of course the closer they got to New York, the more news they got of the damage there and New Jersey, where Sandy had made landfall. New Jersey had, at current count, two dozen people dead and was still steadily rising, whole cities flooded like Hoboken, which had evacuated two of its fire stations, the historic downtown of Jersey City was ruined, rumored fuel spills, massive beach erosion of thirty to forty feet, rampant reports of price gouging. But where New Jersey suffered the most was the Jersey Shore, the extensive boardwalks and amusement parks were simply gone. There were still reports of rescues as floodwaters and surges with every high tide brought the water further and further inland. And gas shortages were already being reported.

In New York City, everything was shut down. The lifeblood of the city, the airports, the railways, the subway, all were shut down. Many tunnels were completely flooded and had damaged electrical equipment. Without such vital throughways into the city, and lockdowns in effect, the eight million residents were realizing that they were going to be without power for weeks, and it was difficult to find where to get either food, water, or gas. On 57th and One57, there was a crane a zillion floors up that was partially collapsed and there was no way to repair it, leaving the area under it at risk of further damage. Heartfelt stories of people in some of the boroughs who had generators flooded the airwaves of having power available for anyone who needed a cellphone charge, or wanted to come in for a shower. Mayor Bloomberg was set to have a news conference the following day to lay out timelines for when many of the city's necessities would start getting back online. There was talk of making certain counties disaster areas after all the damage and it seemed every new report brought a higher and higher death toll. People were scavenging for food from spoiled goods outside supermarkets. The fire in Queens was still raging, a hospital was evacuated when backup generators failed...

Desmond reached forward and turned off the radio. He couldn't listen anymore. No matter how lost and restless he was feeling towards the end, he'd been a citizen of New York City for ten years. To hear his home so devastated, so ruined. He just couldn't listen. Enough was enough.

They arrived in Turin, New York in the early evening, and Desmond leaned forward. "Take a left here."

"Er, what, now?" Shaun said, slowing down.

"Turn left," Desmond replied. "We need to go deeper into the valley."

"But..."

"Trust me. I know what to do. Or rather, where to go."

"Really?" William asked dryly.

Desmond ignored him. "Pack up your maps, Rebecca. We'll be off the beaten track."

"You go it," Rebecca said, neatly starting to fold up the maps.

"So now you're talking," Shaun said, slowly turned off the road to a dirt service road.

"Yeah," Desmond replied. "I was sorting out a few things." He gave a small grin. "I'm glad to be just me now."

"Well that is an improvement," Shaun agreed with his usual British understatement. "Though not by much."

"Shaun, shut up," Rebecca sighed.

Desmond narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Since he'd awoken, he'd realized that Lucy's death had truly hit Rebecca hard. He'd known that from what he'd overheard in the Animus, but being conscious, he could see her lack of energy, her usual energetic sparkle dimmed to almost nothing. Shaun's own sarcasm carried a range from either less bite to more, depending on his mood. William simply sat in the back, still observing – the perennial statue.

Fifteen minutes of tracing around service roads and barely-there tracks that the van almost couldn't fit, Desmond told them to stop.

It was completely dark out, though mostly because of the massive cloud cover from Sandy that was probably hitting the US/Canadian border in a few hours.

"Happy Halloween," Desmond said softly. With the winds still howling from Sandy, the darkness of the clouds blocking the setting sun, and the cave Desmond had unerringly lead them to, it was the perfect set up for a horror story. Or a monster movie.

"Bloody American holidays," Shaun groused.

"We're here," William said firmly, silencing Shaun's grumbling. He opened the back doors and warm humid air blew in. "Let's go."

Desmond went to one of the boxes and dug through to pull out the Apple.

Rebecca blinked. "How'd you know where that was?" she asked, grabbing one of the boxes for all the Animus gear.

The Apple merely glowed along with some of Desmond's blood. "Ancestry," he replied.

William slid another box of supplies along the truck floor and hefted it. "Less talking more taking shelter."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he growled under his breath.

Shaun came around back, also grumbling under his breath. "Damned trail's barely passable. How are we going to go back and forth for supplies, it'll be mud in the span of a sprinkle."

Desmond pulled out a glow stick, broke it, and shook it, then hooked it to his belt and then pulled out a flashlight.

The cave opening was definitely bigger than a man. Someone on horseback could probably ride in and not even have to duck. Roots from the trees above the entrance were hanging barren, trying to reach for new sources of nutrients, and in front of the rock that was also the floor of the cave were some sort of low lying ferns or bush of some kind on one side and some sort of evergreen bush on the other. If it weren't for the sheer size, Desmond would have thought it well hidden, with the roots from above and the brush below.

Glancing back, everyone had a box and was squinting against the damp wind. Desmond nodded and carefully stepped forward, swishing his flashlight slowly back and forth to get a good sense of the obstacles that lay before them.

"Incline ahead," he said, stepping on to the dirt of decayed vegetation from centuries of blown in refuse. He glanced back, noted that everyone had glow-sticks at their sides to help and he continued forward. Roots from above occasionally broke through the ceiling, and slowly, after the first fifty feet or so, the cave started to bear to the left, completely out of sight from the mouth and going deeper and further down.

"Rocks sticking through the ground," Desmond cautioned, still easing his way forward, his flashlight with each pass showing exactly what they needed ahead. A flat, unnatural looking wall lay ahead, covered with graffiti of both ancient Native American art hunting some sort of large beast, and more modern spray paint tags and random drawings that made no sense, covering the ancient cave paintings underneath.

The "NO HOPE" graffiti was the most interesting, however. It was at eye level, and the "O" of "NO" was actually a concave indentation in the wall shaped like a perfect sphere. Desmond nodded to himself. He pulled out the Apple, which instantly alighted, giggling anticipation in his mind. In the stronger light, other carvings in the familiar patterns of Those Who Came Before were worn into the flat wall. Reaching through the tree roots, Desmond placed the Apple in the concave indentation and it floated there as if gravity didn't exist, happily swirling and twirling as golden light spread along the carved lines and hexagons. The light spread, veining through the rock enshrouding them all in the golden glow.

" 'In another moment, down went Alice after it,' " Shaun quoted, " 'never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.' "

The Apple gave another anticipatory giggle before falling into Desmond's hands as the unnatural wall before them slowly rose up, revealing more of the cave behind it. Crouching under, Desmond scooted through, then turned to help the others with their boxes. Once they were all through and standing, Desmond turned and looked at... not at a cave, but a hall. A perfectly rectangular hall, made by Those Who Came Before.

"Down the rabbit hole indeed," Desmond mumbled. The air was musty, but the breeze from outside kept pushing fresh air forward, and the dirt at their feet was more like sand, or centuries of dust. Maybe millennium of dust. They kept going downhill steadily until they reached a massive open cavern so huge Desmond's flashlight only barely reached the natural rock ceiling. Ahead was a squat rectangular block of concrete like stone that was buried in the natural rock of the cave. On the far right was a dip in the earth that looked like it would have lead _down_ into something. Yet it was nothing but flat stone.

"I think we're here," Desmond murmured.

The Apple once more lit up and the unbroken wall split in two, each sliding aside to reveal another opening.

Leaning into the opening carefully, Desmond held back the others. "This is a steep slide," he said. "Not sure for how long. I can barely see the bottom."

"Be careful, Desmond," Rebecca said softly, the sorrow of losing Lucy wavering her voice.

"I will."

Desmond crouched down and slid out one leg, slowly easing a slide down, balancing himself with one hand while the other swept the flashlight along so that he could see what was ahead of him. As was typical in New England, giant boulders and large rocks would ease out of the sandy dirt and Desmond made sure to pause and call out what was ahead for the others above him. At the bottom he set his glow-stick on the ground so everyone knew when they reached flat ground. "Okay! Come on down!"

"This isn't _The Price Is Right_!" William growled above them.

"And what, pray tell, is _Price is Right_?" Shaun asked, dry sarcasm in his voice.

For a brief instant, Rebecca's old self bled through. "How can you _not_ know that?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I was a kid everyone I knew watched that show when they were home sick. You mean you've never heard of Bob Barker? Pachinko? The dollar wheel? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"There nothing _wrong_ with me if I'm not properly versed in bad American entertainment."

"Screw that, as soon as we're set up I'm pulling up an episode on youtube and making you watch it."

"Focus, people," William said, ruining the moment.

They slid down one by one, Desmond helping with the boxes and guiding them with his flashlight.

Around them the architecture was distinctly from Those Who Came Before, a faint blue-green glow reacting to the Apple and giving more light to see by. But the signs of decay were heavy. Some of the great columns that supported such a massive structure had collapsed, and cracks were starting to weave their way along the walls and ceilings.

There was a partially collapsed floor that stumbled their navigation briefly, and along with the almost lacquered black stones so often glittering of Those Who Came Before, more concrete-like stone started to appear. Square patches along the path.

At last they came to a vast open expanse.

The black lacquered stone seemed to be forming stalactites and stalagmites within the more concrete-like stone of the vast hall. This made no sense to Desmond because the black stone was unlike any rock he'd ever seen and it didn't look like proper stalactites and stalagmites, lacking the dripping features that defined such rock structures. Instead it was like they had... bubbled outward somehow, but even that wasn't an ideal description. There was one solid column of the black stone from the ceiling down to the floor. Another half-formed column to the left almost eighteen feet high.

The concrete was cracked and broken, the slabs sifting apart after centuries of disuse. Along the concrete walls were long rectangular openings that were reminiscent of windows. In fact, the entire architecture was reminiscent of rectangular blocks fitted together if not for some of the faint bluegreen glow so familiar to the structures of Those Who Came before.

But that was nothing compared to the centerpiece of the room. From broken floor to ceiling, hanging over a gaping maw of darkness were two concrete structures that almost looked like a gateway with a faint blue-green glow. The gate was reached by a series of a dozen steps of the broken concrete, wide and thick leading to some sort of platform in front of the massive gate.

Directly ahead of them was a long stone rectangle, standing waist high, on a flat dais. The top of the rectangle was slanted and there was flickering blue-green light that continued across to a concrete like column that then extended above the rectangle unsupported. Desmond's ancestry of Those Who Came Before whispered _console_ and Desmond stepped up confidently, looking for controls. On the ground in front, with the black lacquered stone-like crystal, was a strange cube, larger than Desmond's hand, with rectangular chunks cut out of it, also flickering in the blue-green color. _Power source._ In the glow of the console, it was easy to see a cube-like impression and Desmond inserted the cube inside.

The flickering stopped, the power restored and spreading. The darkness disappeared as more blue-green light spread to other console stations through the massive cavern, making the cavern clearer to see. The lacquered crystal seemed to glow as the massive gateway surged with new power, the force field barrier strengthening and the tetractys, an equilateral triangle broken into nine more equilateral triangles that Ezio had drawn in the hidden basement of Monteriggioni appeared within. Behind him, Desmond could here the others putting down their boxes.

"We'll need to set up camp here," William said pragmatically. "It's far enough underground that we won't have to worry about Abstergo spying us or on us. Rebecca, get back to the truck-"

… _the key..._ Desmond jerked around, recognizing that voice all too well. _Juno_, whom Desmond didn't trust one iota after his encounter with her. She seemed filled with hate for humanity, spitting out vitriol about those beneath her who did not have that extra sense, yet were their only hope. And she had shown him the future, without any compassion or concern, leaving him the ultimate decision to kill Lucy, whom he cared for so much. Clay's memories of her were also unpleasant, though centered around saving Desmond.

_you must... find... the key._

Her voice was weaker than he remembered, lacking the harsh criticism and haughty arrogance. He could only barely hear it, and it sounded like it was on the other side of that gate.

Desmond walked forward, eyes going right to the concrete-like rock that was suspended in the forcefield. No doubt this was the lock, but the Apple wasn't reacting to it.

_find the key..._

Desmond felt his mental partitioning, deep in his mind crack open. He lowered his head and shook it, remembering the black island, the columns of Those Who Came Before that he used to block off his ancestry unless _he_ called upon it himself. But there was a crack and another door was forming, not to Altaïr or Ezio, but to someone knew. He slowly spun around, eyes squinting, as the sights of this Precursor Site blurred and faded, something else trying to overlay it.

"Son?" William must have noticed something because he put a hand on Des_tham's_ shoulder. _Hay_mond turned to look to his father_, his friend and coachman_. But it wasn't William who stood there, grizzled gray hair slicked back. Instead was a bald man in a tricorn hat.

"_Sir?_" came a deep British accent, _southern London_, asking in concern.

Desmond sighed. "Here we go again," he muttered bitterly, before collapsing.

* * *

"_Desmond?_" Rebecca sounded worried.

"_Do you hear us?_" William didn't.

Desmond grunted. Still pulling himself together. "Yeah." He rubbed his face, and looked around to the white blankness of the Animus. _Great, back in here again. Joy_. "What happened?" The last memory was a little foggy. Something cracking when it wasn't supposed to?

"_The Temple triggered a bleeding effect,_" William replied mechanically. "_You collapsed and entered into a fugue state._"

Peachy. "So naturally," Desmond bitterly replied, "you dropped me in the Animus instead of... I don't know... making sure I was okay?"

"_You weren't in any danger,_" William replied calmly. Almost condescendingly. Bastard always knew best. Desmond did _not_ miss that. "_Besides, the Temple appeared to be communicating with you, and I didn't want to risk severing the connection. At least not until we knew what it wanted._"

_You must find the key._ Yeah, Desmond knew exactly what it wanted.

"Right," Desmond growled sarcastically and bitterly. "Of course."

"_Son, I..._" William's usual confidence was gone, and he sounded almost... apologetic.

Desmond sighed. "It's fine." _No it's not._ "I get it." Or rather, _Clay_ did, and Desmond could see that now. "And I know what _I'm_ looking for, by the way." Still, he couldn't help jabbing that _he_ was the one in control this time. He wasn't a child to be ordered around. He could at least exercise _this_ much control. "It's a key. Just don't know where it is, though..." he shrugged, things coming together in his mind. Why what had happened after his careful construction of partitions happened. "Guess that's why she triggered the Bleeding Effect."

"_She?_" William inquired, clearly confused.

Desmond didn't want to talk about it. "Juno, Dad. She's... talking to me." And didn't that sound just as crazy as he _had_ been? No, he really didn't want to talk about it.

"_Okay, Desmond,_" Rebecca said awkwardly. "_While you were, uh, _visiting_ Constantinople, we picked up a software update for the Animus. Once you passed out from Juno's tender mercies, we had to scramble to get the Animus and all its gear down here._"

"_No more recliner for you, Desmond,_" Shaun added cheerfully. "_You don't seem to rank leaning back in _style_ any more._"

"_Shut _up_, Shaun,_" Rebecca growled, her temper far shorter than usual as she continued to grieve Lucy. "_He is right. I had to whip it together in a hurry so I did a lot of rewiring. Thankfully it's smaller now. More portable than the massive recliner._"

"Yay."

"_Anyway,_" Rebecca continued, "_I'd like to run a couple of quick tests – make sure there aren't any major issues._"

"So I play guinea pig," Desmond gave a wry smile that would be more at home on Ezio's face. "Just like old times. Alright, what do you need me to do?"

Around him basic geometric forms started take shape, in a vaguely hall-like manner. "_How's an obstacle course sound?_"

"Like fun." And Desmond gave an honest smile.

He ran through it, using all the tools and skills he'd picked up from Ezio and Altaïr, ducking, rolling, jumping, and climbing. Slowly, as he went along, the shapes became less random. The floors started to take on patterns of planks in the eye of an abstract painter, and beams and rails started to appear. In the distance, he saw slanted roofs and shuttered windows with chimneys protruding above. It wasn't until he came to a railed balcony that he paused.

"Rebecca, are you doing this?"

"_No,_" she replied. "_I think it's the DNA that Juno was trying to get you to synch with. It's leaking in. You'll probably end up with the ancestor that you need to be by the end of this._"

Peachy.

So he climbed the rail and kept going.

More and more structures started to be built and Desmond started to recognize the designs. It wasn't Ottoman, Italian, or even from the middle east. It was the familiar colonial style of homes that were still built to that day. Shingled roofs, paned windows that could be slid open. Stout chimneys.

Ahead was a massively large structure, with archways that he fell through easily and appeared in the white geometric shapes slowly coalescing into a narrow street. Desmond's vision glitched for a moment before he looked down to fancy clothes of fine-spun wool, cotton, and silk.

"Looks like I got my new avatar," he said. Let's see, no weapons other than a hidden blade. Assassin, then. He walked forward, watching the street continue to form as more details started to show. Near the end the person who had overlaid William stood.

"Sir? Sir?" the man as_ked in his deep voice Holden patted the horses as he pau_sed. "Everything all right, sir?"

Desmond looked to hi_m, glad that everything was in order. "Yes, fine," he replied, glancing up to the evening sky. "Just preoccupied, that's all." He stepped fo_rward and together they continued down the street.

"Don't forget your invi_tation. Master Birch will be meeting you inside."_

_"Thank you." Holden truly was a steady friend, to have stuck by his side these pa_st years.

"Where shall I retrieve you once you_'re done?"_

_"Front of the Opera House," he replied confidently. "And be quick about it," he said gravely. "I don't expect to be here long." The underlying need for a fast getaway went unstated._

_"I'll bring her around at once."_

_Haytham Kenway stood before the Opera House entrance and took a small breath. Time to get to work._

* * *

Built in 1728, the Royal Opera House was funded by the capital made from John Gay's ballad opera: _The Beggar's Opera_. Designed at the sight of an ancient convent garden, the theatre had been specializing in plays for some thirty years. Haytham stood in the main hall; rich, red carpet, white paneled walls, gold and brass trim everywhere, a grand staircase that lead to the main auditorium and split to the upper levels, and reflected on all that had brought him here.

It had been almost twenty years since the death of his father, the disappearance of his sister; nineteen years since brigands had broken into his home and shattered his sense of safety. He had been ten years old then, and now he remembered little of either. There were, buried deep in his subconscious, scattered memories of this opera house, however. Something about the carpet and the lighting and the cultivated sounds of strings made him remember sitting in a dark chamber and trying to lean over a rail, looking out over an enormous expanse of people, trying to see the stage. Big, strong arms had grabbed him and lifted him up – his father, he thought. There was the sensation of falling asleep, warm and loved, feeling utterly safe.

Hm. If only that feeling had lasted.

Still, he was no longer a child; he had needs to put childish thoughts behind him. Since that time he had grown up and learned the truth of the world, and idealism was best saved for private contemplation _after_ an assignment had been completed.

Reflection over, he breezed forward. In one sweeping motion he removed his hat and stuffed his invitation inside, handing it to the clerk almost before he finished uttering the words: "Invitation, please." The smooth motion left the poor fellow struggling to finish his well-rehearsed sentences of service. "Shall I take your coat sir?"

Haytham simply waved him off, the less the help saw of him the better. Besides, as he told Holden, he sincerely doubted he would be here long.

People milled about the reception hall, in small groups and parties, talking of home, family, politics, anticipation of what they were about to see. Haytham saw no children about, and for a moment he was back in that dark private box, held by his father, feeling safe and sound. He shook his head, once again putting such thoughts from his mind – he was surprised to be so overwhelmed with nostalgia, he had not thought a place he had visited only once would bring him back to happier days, and he steadfastly compartmentalized, resolving to give the emotions their proper exposure once he was in the carriage; Holden was guaranteed to give him the privacy he needed for an exploration and – more importantly – would not ask questions. There were few enough places in the wide world he felt safe enough to explore his deeper thoughts and feelings, and while Holden was hardly an equal by any stretch, he was brilliant as a gentleman's gentleman, and his loyalty was absolute and unwavering. Haytham knew of only one other man like that, and _he_ was the one Haytham was about to meet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are requested to kindly find your seats."

Haytham obeyed the command dutifully and made his way up the stairs, past two more servicemen clad in impeccably white gloves. Past them was the lush deep red of wall to wall carpet, designed to absorb the sound and keep people warm in the cold months – though with hundreds of people crowded together in the expansive auditorium one had little trouble retaining heat. Said crowds were shuffling down the aisles, carefully navigating the ever changing maze of people and rows to find their seats. Some already seated waved to friends, women delicately avoided awkward situations that would question their honor, and gentlemen helped those around them. Haytham made his way down the center aisle, eyes open for his appointment when an usher spotted him and made his way over. "Good evening, sir. This way, please."

Following the man, Haytham spied the greying hair of a man he had known since childhood, the man who had taken him after the death of his father and kidnapping of his sister and raising him as his own, inducting him into the family Order and guiding him through the truth of the world.

Reginald Birch.

Where Haytham trusted Holden for his unwavering loyalty, he trusted Reginald for his sincerity of purpose and clarity of vision. He was a mountain, unmoving, unwavering, in the tragedy of the world around him. He, like Haytham, saw the world for what it truly was, and sought to guide it in the right direction. A merchant like his father, owner of ships and trading mostly in tea, Reginald had made an impression immediately when Haytham met him as a child. Beset by muggers, Reginald had threatened to kill them in a gentlemanly fashion while Haytham's father had refused the act. Betrothed to his missing sister Jenny, Reginald was just as distraught as a ten-year-old Haytham when the incident had happened, and helped Haytham repeatedly in his search for his sister. However much he did not _like_ Jenny, it was his duty as a Kenway to find her and save her from whatever fate had befallen her. Reginald had helped him through the grieving process, reassuring him when thoughts of his sister being dead surfaced, encouraging him when all hope seemed lost. It was Reginald Birch who had shaped Haytham into the man he was today, and as Grandmaster of the British Rite Haytham would follow him into hell if it was asked of him.

Navigating the narrow access to the seats, offering a thousand apologies when he came too close to a lady or stepped on a gentleman's foot, he found his seat and settled himself in.

"Evening, Haytham."

"Reginald."

The opening music had started, and moderate quiet was starting to settle over the crowd, though many were still conversing. Reginald leaned in. "I can't tell you how happy I was to hear they'd mounted this revival. Gay's best work by far. Have you seen it before?"

Haytham gave nothing away. "Once. My father brought me here as a child, though I remember little of it. And I don't suppose tonight will afford me the luxury of a proper viewing either." His eyes drifted up to the private boxes, dim memories trying to overlay his conversation. A purse of his lips and it was gone.

Reginald glanced to his student before moving on. "No, I'm afraid it won't. On to business then. Do you see him?"

On to business indeed. Haytham had been surprised to learn that one of _them_ was here, the members of the opposing side of their great silent war. He had rather always pictured them as dullards, incapable of appreciating the finer things in life such as this play or the refinement of music. Theirs was a sordid sort, consorting with the lowest of the low and showing just what kind of "people" they were. Animals really. When Reginald had summoned him for this task, Haytham took an appropriately modest amount of pride that he had been chosen, and he dutifully started scanning theatre.

The two of them were in the second to last seat, at the very back of the auditorium; Reginald would not have picked those seats if he didn't know exactly where the target was seated. That meant the floor seats and the mezzanine directly above them were above reproach, and so Haytham set his eyes to the private boxes. The chandeliers provided adequate lighting and he moved from one booth to the next until he eyed a man surprisingly familiar. "He's seated in one of the boxes above," he said softly.

"He has in his possession a ring of some kind, perhaps a necklace, that our code-breaker says is vital. The stairs are watched. I don't know if said eyes are cut of the same cloth, but those watchers are armed. You'll need to find another way up."

"I already have," Haytham replied, spying an old ladder just visible in a shadowed alcove to his left.

The music was over, and the actual acting had commenced, strong cockney accents reverberating about the theatre as he stood and slowly exited his row. Once he was clear, he gave one last, lingering gaze to the play. Perhaps when this was over he would take the time to see it for himself.

No, that was a childish notion, and he had stopped being a child when he was ten years old.

Moving into the alcove, much of the light had disappeared, and so grappling with the ladder was a bit of a struggle, but Haytham managed it and climbed it, bringing him up to the mezzanine. The thick and heavy drapes provided the cover he needed, and soon he was in the secondary halls, "accidentally" walking into private booths until he found one that was empty. From there he calmly took a seat to better survey the booths across from him. He needed to go up another floor, and all the other boxes were occupied. His target – he never did learn the man's name when they first met – seemed to be fully engrossed in the play. Foolish to think he was safe in a place like this. Foolish to think he was safe _anywhere_, truth be told; more's the pity.

Having properly surveyed the ground, however, he exited the private box and made his way to the back of the theatre. His next stop was the catwalks, and with the play going everybody backstage were busy as bees. Finding the right door, he glanced down at the stage before seeing if anyone was about to cause him worry.

"Man the lines! Flats in place! Stand-by!"

"I've got a bit of stage fright..."

"A little dutch courage'll put a bloom in your cheek."

"Jeremy's really burning up the boards tonight. He's a marvel."

Nobody existed to assail him, and Haytham took a moment to clean the April mud and muck off his boots before making his way across; last thing he needed was the grime to fall on someone's head and cause him or her to look up. Once across – the view below was spectacular in how it removed the veneer of theatre and showed the innards of the craft – he looked at his second story door and spied a third story one above it. Not at _all_ thrilled with the idea of climbing, he took a deep breath and observed that it was absolutely necessary before grabbing the support post and shimmying his way up. Embarrassingly undignified, that.

Now, however, he was on the desired floor, and after a quick bout of lock picking he was in the main hall. He quietly made his way into the booth, and saw that his adversary was alone. Excellent. He sat behind him.

"Haytham..." the man said.

They had met in Corsica last year, when Reginald had availed Haytham to find a code-breaker for a journal that they had taken possession of back in '47. This man had been guarding the code-breaker, and in their fight had cost Haytham his father's sword. More than slightly perturbed, Haytham had returned the gesture by taking _his_ weapon. Capturing the journal had been a rough year for Haytham, he had learned his mother had finally passed on, he had come within _inches_ of the ones responsible for the attack of his childhood. One conspirator died of his injuries, another confessed Haytham's father one of _them_, and had been killed for an item in his father's possession. And while the former was utter rubbish, he believed the lead that followed led him on a painful mission with Braddock... Seeing this man brought up thoughts of that damned journal and the terrible year that followed, but Haytham was a gentleman first and none of his thoughts showed on his face. His sparing this man last year had been an act of kindness, a warning not to cross paths again, but now there was simply no helping it.

"How is Lucio?" the man asked.

"Rather well I expect," Haytham replied. "He's been reunited with his mother, you'll be happy to know."

The man's head jerked as if wincing. "You should have come to me, that night we met. We would have found another way..."

An offering of partnership? It was the first Haytham had ever seen, their kind so intractable he would have thought it impossible. There was an impulse in Haytham to consider the offer, in memory of the rumor of his father if for no other reason. But he was Reginald's man first, he was a member of the _Order_ first, and duty was paramount in all things. Could they have found another way?

"Yes, perhaps," he replied. "But then you would have known what we were after."

"Of course," the man said. "God forbid either side be rational in a conflict such as ours."

"You do a disservice," Haytham replied. "We have always been _rational_. Me and mine, at least. What the two of us are _not_, however, is capable of sharing."

The moment hung in the air, both men thinking of that night, the damage they did to each other, and the respect they grudgingly had for one another.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"As am I."

Haytham stabbed the man through the chair, the older man stiffening and giving a hitched grunt. "Terrible form..." he muttered before slumping into his seat, gasping for air.

Standing, Haytham reached over and examined the elaborate cravat, patting around until he found the necklace Reginald wanted. Mostly green and embossed were the only details he had time to observe before slipping it into a pocket and standing to leave the box.

To his surprise, a boy was behind him; red headed, wide-eyed and utterly terrified. Perhaps ten years old, Haytham realized he had just crushed a boy's sense of safety even as his own had been crushed. Pursing his lips at the thought, he brought a finger up to his frown – the universal gesture for quiet – and walked away before the reality of what he had done settled on him. The job was done, the item acquired, the target neutralized, gasping his last gulps of air. His next objective would be to leave without drawing suspicion.

He made it down the main hall, down some stairs and past a few ushers when a scream echoed throughout the halls, making the servants turn in confusion. Someone shouted, "Calm, please!" but Haytham could feel the confused energy of the filled auditorium. Excellent, he could depart with the masses. Already several were beginning to enter the hall from their private boxes.

"B-side balcony!"

"Over there! That's the one! That man there! Seize him!"

A rush of energy passed and the man in front of Haytham was tackled to the ground. A flush of a near miss filled his cheeks and he made a quick turn before he started to look guilty. The end of the hall was beginning to fill with people leaving the mezzanine.

"A man was killed in the upper balcony!"

"Oh, my!"

"But I-I've done no wrong; I swear it!"

"I beg your pardon."

"No pushing! Please!"

"Order! We must have order!"

Haytham made a quick right into the mezzanine, where he had begun his assignment, and saw that it was almost completely empty, people standing in groups of friends and family as before, but now instead of talking about gaiety and life instead tense with anxiety, casting suspicious looks everywhere. Womenfolk huddled around the protection of their men, said men trying and often failing to put on a brave face. "Do you know what's happened? What was that scream?"

"Someone said murder."

"Murder! Here? Don't be absurd."

"Please, darling, take me home. I'd rather not be here if there's a corpse about."

"There's a _killer_ about! I'm staying here where it's safe."

Exiting the mezzanine he saw more crowds.

"Move! Move!"

"Order, we must have order!"

"Imbecile!" one man cursed, shoving past Haytham and his orderly retreat; others were power walking down the steps, increasingly desperate to get away. Another pair of servants held a man against the wall, confused and demanded to be told why he was being detained.

"You search along here. You search down there."

"Very well. If you find anyone, give a shout."

"Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"I need to get out! It's too close in here! I must get some air!"

"Smelling salts! Does anyone have smelling salts! My wife is distraught!"

"Calm yourself! You must calm yourself! I won't let you go until you're calm!"

Haytham breezed past it all, down the stairs into the main entry hall. Everyone was there, it seemed, pressed together and uncertain, energy giving them an undulating sense of anticipation. Haytham blithely left them to it, quietly and politely making his way through to the doors. Many more were there, hailing carriages or talking to their footmen. Holden, bless him, was already primed and ready, calmly telling several theatre goers that he was not free for hire no matter _what_ the price.

"Holden!" he said brightly. "Shall I avail you of your services once more, or have you decided to aid the rabble?"

"_Rabble_?!" someone said with complete indignation.

"Master Kenway," Holden replied. "And how was the opera?" he asked.

"Rather dull, truth be told."

"Dull? _Dull?_ What kind of brute-"

But Holden shoved the man aside and looked into the carriage as Haytham settled himself.

"Shall we be off, then?"

"Aye. To Fleet and Bride."

"By your command."

Haytham pulled out his new trinket, studying the treasure he had been ordered to collect. It was not green but rather jade, though he was no expert. A dragon spun around the circle eating its tail, distinctly from the Orient, but the symbols inside the dragon's circle were queer, almost Egyptian perhaps, or Greek or Roman. Haytham knew little of history in that regard, save what he had learned in his education – which was of course distinctly one-sided and focused ubiquitously on the beauty that was England.

Pocketing the trinket, he closed his eyes and reflected on the events and the memories, hoping to sort them out before Holden arrived at their destination.

* * *

He supped at Fleet and Bride, Reginald's place of business and one of the major sources of finance for the Order. Reginald was still at the opera to watch events unfold, and so Haytham assembled blankets and a pillow for those that spent the night here between shifts or returning from assignment. His sleep was far from restful, memories of Jenny's kidnapping, the house on fire, Reginald saving his life, plagued him and he woke at dawn in protest of the constant interruptions. He had not had such dreams in years, over a decade in fact, and he was loath to admit that the Royal Opera House's power of nostalgia had affected him so. Breakfast consisted mostly of the ample sources of tea, earl grey with a pinch of cream, to wake him up and set his mind right.

Reginald was in his office, standing at the window's grey light and studying the trinket Haytham had killed to obtain. "The rest will be here within the hour," the grandmaster said, voice as far away as his eyes were intent.

The entire court showed up, several must have ridden through the night to arrive, from all over the countryside and the city. Haytham knew some of them but not all, his travels in Europe having left him rarely touching base here at home. The meeting lasted over an hour before he was called in.

Reginald gave a succinct account of what had led everyone to the meeting: the story of the journal and its mysteries, the quest to find a code-breaker, and now a new artifact, which he passed around the oblong table. When it returned he held it up once again, mesmerized by it, a glint in his eyes Haytham had never seen before and rather didn't like. "Fascinating... Gentlemen, I hold in my hand a key. And if this book is to be believed," he put his hand on the journal, "it will open the doors of a storehouse built by Those Who Came Before."

"Ah, yes; those who ruled, reigned, and then vanished from the world," one of the lieutenants said, not with some sarcasm.

"Do we know what it is that would be held within?" asked another.

Reginald eyed them gravely. "It could contain certain knowledge. Perhaps a weapon. Or something as yet unknown, unfathomable in its construction and purpose. It could be any of these things. Or none of them. They are still an enigma, these precursors. But of one thing I am certain – whatever waits behind those doors shall prove a great boon to us all."

"Or our enemies. Should they find it first," Haytham offered.

"They won't," Reginald assured. "You've seen to that."

Haytham smiled at the praise.

"I assume you know where this storehouse is?" another of the order asked.

"Ah," Reginald replied, gesturing to one at the table. "Mister Harrison."

"Gentlemen," he said softly, his voice nasal and thin. A map was quickly unrolled and soon everyone was up and staring at it. Haytham recognized the coast of the Colonies, studying it as the conversation continued.

"How fare your calculations?" the grandmaster asked.

"I believe the site lies somewhere within this region," Harrison replied, tracing his fingers over a vast circle well west of the Colonies, deep in savage territory and at a radius so wide as to encompass hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles. Truly? This was the sum of this man's calculations?

"That's a lot of ground to cover," someone muttered.

"My apologies," Harrison replied, his cockney accent thickening in nerves. "Were that I could be more accurate..."

Reginald was reassuring. "That's alright. It suffices for a start. And this is why we've called you here, gentlemen, to avail you of our progress and impart the next stage. With the help you have been lending me overnight and just now, I believe we can all agree on this:" He turned. "Master Kenway. We'd like for you to travel to America, locate the storehouse, and take possession of its contents."

"I am yours to command," Haytham agreed readily. "Although a job of this magnitude will require more than just myself."

"Of course. Upon this paper are the names of five men sympathetic to our cause, garnered by our fellow compatriots here with their vast collective knowledge and experience. Each is also uniquely suited to aid you in your endeavor, ranging from underworld connections to knowledge of the Indians. With them at your side, you will want nothing."

Haytham took the paper and glanced at the names: Charles Lee – any connection to John and Isabella Lee? - William Johnson, Thomas Hickey, Benjamin Church, John Pitcairn – he'd heard of him, military man, good leader. The others he knew nothing about other than what was written, and he wasn't about to read their short biographies while in front of the other; appearances must be maintained, after all. "Well," he said, "then I'd best be on my way."

The answering smile on Reginald was one Haytham had seen many times before. "I knew our faith in you was not misplaced. We've booked you passage to Boston. Your ship leaves at dawn. Go forth, Haytham – and bring honor to us all."

It was only later, after meeting with Holden and telling his servant the news, that he realized the larger part of what was expected of him:

He was just named Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, and his list of names were its charter members. The weight of the realization gave him pause, he looked out the window to the muddy April streets. The New World had been known about for centuries, over two hundred years and they had never been able to set up a successful rite there; _they_ had gotten there first and had a much stronger foothold. Haytham vowed to himself that this would be different. Not only would he find the storehouse Reginald was so obsessed with, he would route out their enemies and make the continent one ripe for their Order. He would establish his Order so firmly that there would be no doubt over who controlled the Americas.

His ambition carried him through the rest of the motions he had to endure in order to begin his mission. He and Holden held a lengthy conversation about his lost sister Jenny, what new avenues to pursue and how to go about the search discreetly. Reginald of late had become obsessed with the fairy tales of that journal and the precursor site, becoming agitated whenever Haytham talked about his mentor's betrothed. Haytham could not begrudge the man's own sense of loss over Jenny, but neither could he ignore any possible lead on a sister he was duty-bound to locate. They both shared a moment of disdain as Reginald's single-mindedness, but Haytham's absolute trust in the man eventually won out, and he gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Once packed, he embarked upon the ship, one of Reginald's own, and mentally prepared himself for a six week excursion across the Atlantic.

Most of the voyage was spent reading the mysterious journal that had so consumed his friend Reginald. The words were simple but somehow profound. The clarity and certainty of the point of view was neither fanatical nor unsupported; evidence was listed, thought experiments provided, _life_ was breathed into the tail of the Precursors, stories and studies that were compelling enough that even Haytham, for all his strict personal control and rigid character adherence, dared to wonder if the fairy tale might have some kernel of truth. He stared at the key he possessed and wondered, dare he say, fantasized, about what lay beyond the mythical door.

He brought himself under control however, before his imagination ran away with him. There were, of course, _other_ concerns to be had about the ship.

What was supposed to be a six week voyage turned into an interminable ten week monstrosity. Bad leadership, infiltration by _them_, and a storm of such magnitude that many travelers were compelled to aid in the repairs. Though he was no expert, he had rather thought that storm season on the Atlantic were in the late summer and early fall months, not the _end of spring_. Hurricanes, as they were called, were devils of storms and it was the only name Haytham found appropriate for the storm that had assailed th_em God you clearly don't KNOW what a hurricane i_s. The supplies were spoiled as well, perpetuating a nutritional disaster that drove even rational men to distraction. Haytham's military excursions and gentlemanly character prevented him from joining the savagery of the rabble.

The crew had cheered when they saw birds flying overhead, a symbol of being near land, and as the morning fog lifted he saw the expanse of a world such that he had never seen before. Hills and mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, signs of civilization so scant as to feel almost virgin; only the smallest of hovels could be seen through the fog – only one spire peaked up, the rest just dark blurs of buildings.

_This_ was Boston? One of the largest cities of the New World? This... _hovel_?

Haytham had his work cut out for him.

Docking took far too long for the passengers, particularly with land in easy sight. Almost of one mind they all mobbed the dock, some cravenly bowing and kissing the ground, weeping in unbridled joy at the trials being over. Haytham looked on at disgust. Plebeians.

Instead he took his time in packing his gear, making sure nothing was forgotten, and disembarked with one last parting glare at the captain. He set his gear on the dock and took a breath, smelling the humid salt of the ocean for hopefully the last time, and mentally prepared himself for the first immediate steps necessary when arriving in a new locale.

"Master Kenway! Master Kenway!"

He turned. "Yes? May I help you?"

A young man, barely twenty from his looks, breezed through the crowds with a spring in his step and eagerly breeched Haytham's personal space, looking for and taking his hand. "Charles Lee, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've been asked to introduce you to the city. Help you settle in." Haytham nodded and started to heft his pack. "Oh no need sir. I've arranged for your bags to be delivered to the Inn."

The boy spoke with the speed of youth combined with excitement and enthusiasm, shifting from one foot to the next to the point of nearly bouncing. Haytham gave one last look at his bag before nodding. Charles was one of the names on the list, a charter member – well, not now at least, when he was young and eager to please and acting more as an apprentice than an actual member of the order. His looks were uncanny, however, to the Lees back home and Haytham indulged in his curiosity.

"Are you by any chance John and Isabella's son?" he asked.

The boy started in surprise before beaming as bright as the sun. "One and the same. Do you remember them?"

"Yes, my father brought me to their wedding. I was but a boy at the time, as you can imagine, and we supped with them and they with us many times. Now that I think of it I remember your birth, Isabella went into labor just as they were leaving our home, my mother went with them to the doctor for the delivery. I didn't see much of them after I was ten, of course, but we've exchanged letters on occasion and a few years ago I began dining with them again. You must have been just starting your commission."

"Yes!" Charles said brightly, eyes wide and smile stretched nearly from ear to ear. "I grew up hearing stories of you and your letters and adventures. I dare admit an embarrassing amount of giddiness with excitement when I was contacted to meet you."

"Your commission is with Edward Braddock, is it not?" Haytham asked, keeping his voice level and innocuous.

"Aye," Charles said, still bouncing about, "But he's yet to reach America and I figured I might... Well... At least until he arrives... I thought..."

"Yes," Haytham coaxed. "Out with it."

The boy could hold no secrets whatsoever, and his desires burst out of him. "Forgive me, sir. I had... I had hoped that I might study under you. If I am to serve the Order I can imagine no better mentor than yourself."

"Kind of you to say, but I think you overestimate me."

The boy shook his head. "Impossible, sir. Impossible. Oh, this way."

Well, if nothing else, Charles would be a healthy boon to Haytham's ego. He rather liked the idea.

They continued to walk down the pier and Haytham took better stock of his surroundings. The town screamed poverty, everything was built in dull wood slats, stonework was little more than practical brick. Despite that first impression however, the streets were uncommonly wide, wide enough for easily four or five carts to ride through, and stands were everywhere; the street, once they were on it, was brick, which surprised Haytham. The people moved to and fro about their daily business, boys were selling news sheets and even the poorest seemed able to read the columns. What was the literacy rate here? Slaves moved about quietly, as was their station, and were easily recognizable with their patently dark skin. Haytham had heard tell of judging slaves by how close to spades they resembled, and he could now see for himself that the stories were true. Some where well clothed, most likely manservants. Similarly, the Indian savages were easy to pick out, their skin, too, was dark and easy to identify. Some were dressed well but most were in unseemly animal leathers and looked as brutish and heathen as Haytham had pictured.

What truly struck him, however, was how the spades and the savages and the quaint colonists all mixed with the superior British stock in what Haytham could only label as working harmony. He did not see riots or fighting that he had always assumed common in the rough-and-tumble American children. The levels of drunkenness, obscenity, and backwards thinking he expected were simply not present, and Haytham found himself pleasantly surprised. In a land so heavily influenced by _them_, he had rather thought differently. Hovel though this city may be, there were things here he could work with.

In the spirit of that good thought he turned to his escort. "Boston's quite a lively city," he offered.

Charles was quick to agree. "There's all manner of things to see and do. Once you've settled in, I suggest you take some time to walk the streets. Who knows what opportunities you might discover..."

"Hold a moment," Haytham said, interrupting the boy's enthusiasm. "I need to fetch a few things before we get to work." Heaven knew he lost enough when the storm had hit.

Not at all perturbed, Charles nodded his head. "I'll arrange for horses while you do that."

Haytham and Charles separated, Haytham entering a shop simply labeled "General Store." Were all the signs here printed? What happened to the illiterate, how did they know to come here? Regardless, he entered and reequipped himself. The proprietor, disgustingly French, was happy to see actual coin instead of credit, and dug through his stock to find the necessary papers, blank books, inkwells and ink stones, a poor excuse of a pistol that was intolerably expensive, and tea. _Dutch_ tea, no less, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

No sooner had he stepped outside that Charles was there with a pair of mares. Haytham mounted without a word and they set off.

"We ride for the Green Dragon Tavern," Charles explained, eager to interpret Haytham's mind. "The proprietors are... eccentric, but the rooms are spacious and they do not pry."

"What do you mean by 'eccentric'?"

"Ah, well... the owner is a woman. She and her husband Mr. Douglass inherited it from her brother two years ago. They're rationalists, like the departed brother; they believe life is the result of logical deduction, secularists. They don't believe in God."

"I see," Haytham said, letting his tone deliver his thoughts. "Have you been told why it is I've come to Boston?"

"No," Charles said simply. "Master Birch said I should know only as much as you saw fit to share. He sent me a list of names and bade me ensure you could find them."

That explained the enthusiasm; Haytham was a doorway to a wider world. "And have you had any luck with that list?" he asked.

"Aye!" the boy said brightly. "William Johnson waits for us at the Green Dragon."

Interesting. "How well do you know him?"

"Not well," Charles replied. "But he saw the Order's mark and did not hesitate to come."

A mark in his favor then, much like the boy. Haytham offered a nugget of hope. "Prove yourself loyal to our cause and you may yet know our plans as well."

The answering grin was awe-striking. "I should like nothing more, sir."

The rest of the ride was quiet enough. Haytham took in the streets and the people by turn, trying to see if he could ascertain the percentage of slaves, Indians, and Colonists. He was surprised to see so many _types_ of people: English of course, but also French, German, Irish, Scottish, Spanish, Portuguese, and even Italians. Languages ranged from all of those, some incomprehensible gibberish from the slaves, and an ugly guttural set of noises from the Indians. He was again struck by all the differences between the men and women, and he marveled that the colonies had not gone to war with itself up to now. He had been in France many times, they at best only tolerated the English and vice-versa. Wars with the Indians happened practically since Columbus discovered the New World, and heaven knew no man – spade or otherwise – wanted to be a slave; and yet they were all together in this city doing more than tolerate each other. It was a marvel, simply a _marvel_.

"Sir, we're here," Charles said brightly.

The Green Dragon was not grandiose; like the rest of the city it lacked sophistication, simple brick and green shutters, shingled roof and chimneys at either end of the structure. Still, it was inviting. The pair dismounted and as they approached the door they could hear what seemed to be a heated argument.

"You lying, cheating, no-good sonofabitch!" a cockney woman was hissing to a man, presumably her husband, pushing at his chest and turning away at the perfect moment to see Haytham and his escort.

Haytham practiced prudence. "Perhaps we've come at a bad time?" he offered.

In a split second the woman's face went from irritated to bright and cheery. "Oh!" she said, her voice an octave higher and two octaves sweeter. "Don't be foolish, dearies! Please. Sit. Fancy something to eat? A drink, perhaps? Or is it a bed you require?"

Young Charles was put out. "We've already lent rooms here."

The husband, presumably Mr. Douglass, brightened. "Oh, yes! Of course! Masters Lee and Kenway, was it? I'll have your bags brought up. Do you require anything further?"

Haytham was already at the stairs. "Only privacy." A glance showed the proprietor frown but nod, asking no questions. Do not pry indeed.

"This way," Charles said once they reached the landing. The rooms were indeed spacious, for a colony, Haytham supposed, but the bed was freshly turned down and the amenities were complete. Given other locations he had been forced to stay in this was more than adequate. All the rooms were on the second floor, while the first and basement were reserved to the tavern. There was, however, space enough for a small table on the landing, and there sat a man pushing forty with a blanket curiously draped over his shoulder, sipping a mug of something.

"Sir, William Johnson."

Said man looked up. "A pleasure," he said with a faint Irish brogue, he and Haytham taking hands. The pair retired to Haytham's room for privacy, Charles dutifully closing the door to stand guard outside. "A good lad," William offered, "if a bit earnest."

"I can see he will have his uses."

"That he will. Now, I'm told you're putting together an expedition."

"Yes." Haytham explained the long tale that had brought them to this point: the journal and its revelations, the key he had acquired, and now the research indicating it was here in the Americas. "We believe there's a precursor site in the region. I require your knowledge of the land and its people to find it. First though, I'd like to know a little more about you, William. Tell me about yourself."

"What's there to tell?" he countered. At Haytham's answering look, however, he continued. "I was born in Ireland to Catholic parents – which I learnt early in life, severely limited my opportunities. So I converted to Protestantism and journeyed here at the behest of my uncle. But I fear my Uncle Peter was not the sharpest of tools. He sought to open trade with the Kanien'kehá:ka – but chose to build his settlement away from the trade routes instead of on them. I tried to reason with the man, but as I said, not the sharpest. So I took what little money I'd earned and bought my own plot of land. I built a home, a farm, a store and a mill – humble beginnings – but well situated, which made all the difference."

"So this is how you came to know the..." he frowned at the name. "Kanie... Kena...?"

"Mohawk," William offered. "You can call them the Mohawk, just don't call them that to their face. Indeed – and it has proven a valuable relationship."

"Are they a sensitive people, then?"

"Sensitive?" William said, snorting. "No, theirs are a people betrayed by us a few too many times. Mohawk is actually in insult to them, the Dutch tried to pronounce the Algonquin word for them – which is deliberately meant to be offensive. If you ever meet a Kanien'kehá:ka, call them the Keeper of the Eastern Door. It will at least show respect, assuming they know the language. They're part of the Haudenosaunee, or People of the Longhouse."

"The what?"

William gave him a withering look. "This will take a while, it seems. The Kanien'kehá:ka – Keepers of the Eastern Door, are part of a larger society of natives called the Haudenosaunee – the People of the Longhouse. If either of those are too long for you, you can call them Mohawk and Iroquois respectively, both terms are European pronunciations of Algonquin insults to them; the latter coming from the word _hirokoa_, which means killer people, by the way, so mind your words."

"Well, then, it's a good thing we have an expert in our midst," Haytham said smoothly.

William smiled. "They are a good people; some of their beliefs are a bit backwards to we Europeans, but they are excellent fighters to have with you in a war and a boon to traders like myself. They're smart too, though few people, Colonists and Europeans both, know that when they see the animal skins and the wampum."

"But you've heard nothing of the precursors' site? No hidden temple or ancient constructs?"

"Oh, yes and no – which is to say," he clarified, "they have their fair share of sacred sites but none matching what you describe. Earthen mounds, forest clearings, hidden caves – all are natural though. No strange metal... no odd glows."

"Hmmm, it is well hidden then."

"Even to them, it seems."

The flush of ambition from Charles had faded, and William's brief commentary on the men living in the wilds showed a more complex problem than he had initially thought. This would require more care than previously outlined, and Haytham realized this project could take _years_. The thought was troubling.

"But cheer up my friend," William said, sensing the new grandmaster's mood. "You'll have your precursor treasure, I swear it."

Haytham put on a smile. "To our success then."

"And soon!"

The rest of the day was spent with William attempting to educate Haytham on the Keepers of the – which door was it? - on the Mohawk and the People of the... of the... of the Iroquois. Haytham mentally groaned at the long string of names and and societal complexities. Five nations, now six, banded together under the Iroquois banner, speaking the same language and having the same culture of kidnapping children and raising them as Iroquois. Haytham was aghast the the savagery, but William assured him there was no malice intended, and it was because of this... diversification that they had survived as long and as strong as they had. Other tribes, like the Massachusett, the Pocumtuk, the Mahican, the famous Mohegan, the Pequot, the Delaware, Abnaki, any of the other irrationally long list of savages – _natives_, William corrected – paled in comparison to the unity and community of the Iroquois; and their eastern most tribe – yes, Keepers of the _Eastern_ Door – the Kan... the Mohawk.

By the end Haytham's mind was filled with unpronounceable names and a healthy respect for the sheer girth of information that William brought to the table. The pair retired to the table on the landing, Charles still playing watchman. Haytham paused to ask after the boy. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Yes, sir; thank you for asking," the boy replied. His energy and enthusiasm seemed boundless. "Mrs. Douglass gave me a meal and I ate at the door."

He ate _standing_? Haytham shook his head. "One should not sacrifice himself when it is unnecessary, Charles," he said. "If you were hungry you should have let us know so that we could make arrangements. While our numbers are so small that will be necessary."

"I hardly mind, sir."

"I insist."

"As you wish, sir."

… Right, time for a change of topic.

"Do you like it here, Charles?"

For the first time there was a pause, a moment of thought that assured Haytham he would get an honest answer rather than a placating one. "There's a certain charm to Boston I suppose, to all of the colonies really. Granted their cities have none of London's sophistication or splendor, but the people are earnest and hard-working. There's a pioneer spirit that I find compelling."

The new grandmaster nodded. "It's quite something really, watching a place that's finally found its feet."

"Feet awash in the blood of others, I'm afraid," Charles offered.

"Ah," Haytham smiled, "that's a story as old as time itself, and one that's not likely to change. We're cruel and desperate creatures, set in our conquering ways. The Saxons and the Franks, the Ottomans and the Safavids, the Christians and the Moors – I could go on for hours. The whole of human history is but a series of subjugations."

Charles nodded, once more quick to agree. "I pray we one day rise above it."

Haytham pursed his lips before putting on a winning smile. "While you pray, I'll act. We'll see who finds success first, hmm?"

Charles was clearly concerned that he had somehow affronted the grandmaster. He was quick to placate. "It was an expression."

"Aye," Haytham said, unforgiving, "and a dangerous one. Words have power: wield them wisely."

"Sir, I did not mean-"

"I doubt you did, but it is the words spoken in such ignorance that do the most harm. Consider this your first lesson: mind yourself."

"I... I understand, sir."

"Good. William and I will be dining now, and our conversations will be much less critical."

"Yes, sir."

Earnest boy indeed.

* * *

**Epic Author's Notes 2:** The first and foremost thing to say before anything else: Two years ago when we were writing Brotherhood the two of us noticed that it was often a struggle to write, and that at certain points we respectively loathed being the one doing the typing. This was actually compounded, the feeling started back in AC2 when we were doing massive time skips and generating content from nothing, but we really noticed it in Brotherhood. When we first novelized AC1 we were most excited about Brotherhood, but when we actually DID Brotherhood we found it to be a chore. And that feeling has gotten worse ever since. Revelations was out and out painful, and now we're knee deep in writing AC3 while subbing AND teaching and... it's no longer fun.

We've been novelizing the AC franchise for five years now, and it has physically changed how we think about fanfiction - in that we don't write fanfiction anymore, we novelize games or cartoons or anime that we're watching. We've lost the creative spur to take characters and throw them in new situations and see what happens, and we feel that that is a loss.

And so, after much debate and conversation, this fic, AC3, will be our last novelization. It seems apropos that the end of our novelizations end with the end of Desmond's saga, and while we'll certainly continue writing fanfiction, we will no longer be exhausted with year-long projects that suck everything out of us. We feel that we're somehow letting people down, but we must make a decision best suited to us as writers first. We hope you understand.

**Epic Author's Note 3:** Hurricane Sandy. Yes, we went there. Yeah, this is a massive thing and if you didn't live in any of the 24 states affected by Sandy, or even in America when is struck, it's easy to just say, "Eh, it was a big storm." NO, it was not just a "big storm". Hurricane Irene, from the previous year, was as big as Europe, which is pretty damn big. This storm, Sandy, covered from Florida all the way into Canada. By January, two months later, there were STILL 8,300 people with out power in New York City alone. There were, of course, the usual effects you expect from hurricanes along the entirety of the Eastern Seaboard, with massive power outages that lasted for weeks at at a time, flooding, wind damages, coastal erosion, etc. But when we say superstorm, we MEAN superstorm, because a Hurricane and a Snowstorm mated to produce this killer Superstorm. The Great Lakes had record wave heights from 20 to 40 feet. Winds from Sandy pushed in all the way to western Ohio, Appalachia got 3 feet of snow from this hurricane, Southern ONTARIO in inland CANADA felt the effects of heavy rain and strong wind. In the US alone, over 6 million people were without power on Halloween, some as far away as Michigan. Sandy kind of brought into glaring clarity that US infrastructure hasn't been touched in years and needs a major overhaul and update - which of course, has yet to be even brought up for debate in Congress - but that's a political rant that we'll keep to ourselves.

**Epic Author's Note 4 (Geeze there are a lot of these):** The chapter. First off: Desmond! Hi, how you been! More than anything else the game opens with us blatantly explaining what all the sky imagery in ACR novelization lead to, Clay's final gift to Desmond was creating the partitions and teaching Desmond vicariously through his memories how to control the Bleeding Effect - it was the whole point of Revelations to begin with and it can now be properly outlined. Also Sandy but we just finished talking about that.

More importantly: Haytham. Since this is the first time we really get a chance to see Templar philosophy, we sort of decided to go whole hog. Haytham is an "ist," racist, classist, elitist, sexist, stateist, etc. Because Templar philosophy considers themselves above humanity as shepherds, that kind of elevated thinking leads to the ego of an "ist." In this first chapter Haytham has insulted just about everything the two of us claim as heritage either by ancestry or origin or just in lieu of the fact that we have lived in New England all our lives, and he will continue to do so throughout his tenure before we switch to Ratonhnhaké:ton. Honestly Haytham is pretty unlikeable as a character - he was to us at any rate - and we don't understand how he won out over Connor who (to our mind) is infinitely more interesting and juicy as a character. We have, however, tried to make him likable insomuch as we can, and his past echoes Ratonhnhaké:ton eerily enough that rereading this chapter before posting it is kind of funny that these two won't get along.

Or maybe they will, we haven't gotten that far in the writing yet...

In case it wasn't glaringly obvious there was kind of a lot to establish here - and for the next couple of chapters - before we get to the meat of the fic: Haytham, backstory, Charles Lee, Templars, Colonies, Kanien'kehá:ka, Ziio later on - and trying to make that love story make anything resembling sense - Braddock, more backstory, etc. Because of that we've done our best to streamline the beginning memories, trimming the fat as it were. The most obvious sign of that is the great reduction of the voyage and the cutting out of Ben Franklin and his "wit" in regards to women (insert feminist rant here. I don't even care that he was known for sarcasm and wit and dry irreverent irony that the US is supposedly famous for. Just... gueh). More of that will happen in later chapters.

And before anyone asks: yes, we will talk about Rogue. But that's a long, long, _long_ ways away. Be patient.

Next chapter: more uber-dense-plot-establishment.

See you in the summer!


	2. Charter Members

The next morning William explained that, while his home and most of his research was at his home in Johnstown, he did bring along his assistant. Charles made a noise of disgust deep in his throat, and together the two left William to go over the few documents he had brought and to find his wayward help. Said assistant was engaging in public drunkenness – in the middle of the morning – in an establishment several blocks away, with a woman on his lap and his face in her...

Haytham cleared his throat.

"Thomas Hickey?"

A man of black hair and brown eyes, looked up from his work, licking his lip unwholesomely. "Who's askin'?" he asked with a thick cockney drawl.

"Haytham Kenway."

"Is that s'pposed to mean somefin'?" Thomas asked, turning to bury his head again, but the girl pushed him away, embarrassed, and quickly disappeared.

Charles, of course, could not bear to see the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite insulted. "Show some respect, boy." The words were ironic, given that Charles was clearly younger than Thomas. Haytham moved to intervene.

"Peace, Charles." He turned to the drunkard. "William Johnson sent us in the hopes you might... expedite our search."

"Don't need no expiditin'," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair and hooking a leg up to the table. "Don't need none of your fancy London-speak, neither."

"Nevertheless, your presence is required. You may call on your lady friend at a later date."

Thomas sneered, deliberately grabbing his drink and downing it slowly. Charles growled in disapproval again, but Haytham grabbed the boy's shoulder, intent on preventing a further breakdown in communications. Eventually, Thomas finished and staggered to his feet, swaying for several seconds before straightening and looking remarkably sober. "So's you know, I fink you're a right tosser-"

"Now see here...!"

"-But me man Johnson's all right. He pays me. If'n 'e sent you 'ere, 'aytham, then we'd best be goin'."

"As you wish," Haytham replied cordially. He could easily tell why this man would be a boon, if his underworld connections were as good as the short biography on his list indicated, then his playing at being drunk was the first sign of the man's competence. One wondered how he had been assigned the upright and diligent William Johnson, but perhaps dear Reginald had already known that when he had assembled his list.

Outside they began their travel back to the Green Dragon, meandering through the crowds of colonists and Indians and slaves and horses and wagons and stalls and other minutia of city life. Haytham was still admiring how the people put up with one another, and moreover all worked so diligently. It seemed as though idolatry was a sin in the New World, and he would have to ask William, the closest thing to a colonist they currently had, on why that was. It was because he was studying the people that he noticed one person in a blue coat approaching, tricorn had pulled absurdly low. Menace was radiating off of him, and Haytham realized what was happening.

The gun was pulled out from somewhere, but Haytham was already ahead of him, advancing to _him_ instead of visa-versa. Reaching out then tripping him before the firearm was fully drawn and shoving his palm in the man's face, quickening his descent and extending his hidden blade, holding it to the man's throat. Two others tried their luck on the field of battle, but Charles was a soldier and Thomas apparently a brute, both killed their targets. Haytham let the defeat linger for a moment before starting his interrogation.

"Your kind has no need for instigation. Who put you up to this?"

The mercenary was pale, gulping for air even while he tried to pull his neck away from the hidden blade. "Never seen a person. It's always been dead drops and letters. But they always pay, so we do the jobs."

Haytham carefully added menace to his voice. "Well those days are done. Tell your masters I said as much."

"Wh... Who should I say you are?"

Haytham stood, his face cold and unfeeling. "You don't. They'll know."

The mercenary got up and ran, clutching his throat as if to see it was still there.

"Oi! 'Aytham!" Thomas summoned, completely irreverent of the challenge the new grandmaster had just delivered to _them_. "This one's got some shot on 'im. Ya might want to be grabbin' it."

"Are you _mad_?" Charles demanded, indignant. "Can't you see we're in the middle of something?"

"Why you always got ta go an' be a spoil sport? Prissy git."

Charles made a distinct noise of disgust as Thomas moved to loot the second body. Haytham only recognized the violence. "A shame the pair had to die."

"Aye," Thomas said in a blaze voice. "Terrible tragedy that. Back to the Green Dragon, then. I need a drink."

"Have you no _decency_?" Charles demanded.

"Nevah needed it," Thomas replied, completely unrepentant.

Regardless, all three were watchful on their return trip, and Haytham saw with some modicum of pride that both had good eyes. When they returned to the Green Dragon and entered, they moved to Haytham's spacious room and Charles once more took guard, closing it once the others had entered.

"Oi, Mister Johnson," Thomas said immediately. "You're gonna need to double my pay after all dis if you're expectin' me to keep at your side."

William looked up from the notes he was taking. "I beg your pardon?"

"We were beset by some very old enemies," Haytham replied, taking a seat while Thomas dragged over a chair. "They were defeated and a warning of further interference was of course delivered, but it has now been proven that this venture will not be without some dangers."

"An' I ain't paid enough for dis," Thomas added, crossing his arms and hooking an ankle over his knee.

"Well," Haytham said brightly, "In that case, as Grandmaster of this Colonial Rite, I'll more than double your salary, seeing as how your services would prove most valuable to our cause."

Thomas openly blinked, his drunkard persona and blithe irreverence at last swept away. "Ya mean it?" he asked, truly surprised.

"Of course. I am a man of my word."

"Well then, we'd bettah get started. What is it you be needin'?"

And Haytham brought him up to speed, explaining the core values of their order, the goals they had in the New World, and the eventual expedition that they would arrange.

"And how goes it with you, William?" Haytham asked. "Have you made any progress on that curious key of ours?"

"It is most definitely Kanien'kehá:ka in origin, which surprises me given where you found it. The dragon here is clearly a depiction of an _oniare_, that's a water spirit in Haudenosaunee legend that lurks in the Great Lakes far to the west of here. It's a menace that capsizes canoes and eats people, killing them with his poisonous breath. It's curious that it's eating its own tail here, I don't know the significance of that yet. Now, _Oniare'kowa_ are defended against by invoking their thunder god, _Hinon_; that _might_ be what this is in reference to, but what we really need to do is head to my home in Fort Johnson and look at my research. Most of my journals are there; and once we better understand what this ring _represents_, then we can start asking the Kanien'kehá:ka about their sacred sites that deal with the story this little key is telling us."

"And where is your Fort Johnson?"

"Just over the border in New York; I'd say about four or five days travel, depending on the roads."

"So perhaps two weeks total, to collect it and bring it here," Haytham said, rubbing his chin. "That would give Charles enough time to find the other members of our party, and me time to familiarize myself with the more inner workings of the city. And give our friend Thomas here time to put his ear to the ground, now that he knows what we're looking for."

"Agreed. I can arrange a carriage and leave this afternoon."

"Excellent," Haytham said, "I wish you luck on your sojourn. The sooner you leave the better, before word reaches _them_ just who our numbers and objectives are. That will be a secondary assignment for you, Thomas."

"Wot?" the man asked, not paying attention.

"To learn how those 'letters and dead drops' that were mentioned are articulated. Our enemy has had hundreds of years to establish his presence here, and now that we know of one arm they possess, it's time to cut it off."

Thomas grinned. "I like the way you fink, 'aytham. 'specially when you're payin'."

And so it was arranged. William rode off in a carriage by three in the afternoon, and Thomas had disappeared to parts unknown to begin his own work. Charles could not hide his jealousy that a man so ill-be-gotten was given assignments and knowledge that he was not, and it made his search for Benjamin Church and John Pitcairn all the more diligent. Haytham allowed it for now; if the jealousy made him work harder, then all the better.

Haytham spent his time beginning basic organizing of his new Rite. Research aside, William Johnson was quite obviously the money man of this little project, his skill at trade and land investment had made him wealthy in a very short amount of time. There was also his connection to the Indians, a critical point that Haytham had yet to fully understand in order to take advantage of. He had learned that William had an Indian name – a common occurrence as European names were just as difficult to the savages as their language was to Europeans. _Warraghiyagey_, William had made Haytham write that name down over and over and _over_ before he left so that the new grandmaster could remember the trader's alias. If anything went badly, William would send a Mohawk, most likely a man named Hendrick Theyanoguin, to say that Warraghiyagey was in trouble. The Mohawk apparently had last year gone to New York's self-named city and demanded that William be named Indian agent again after his earlier resignation. Haytham did not get all the details, but he understood the political capital he had as well as money and influence over the Indians.

Thomas Hickey was clearly the man of the underworld. In the span of three days he learned how letters were dropped off and under his own initiative set soldiers to level one or two buildings to completely cut off _them_. He more than earned his pay, and by the end of the first week he had also begun planting the seeds necessary to bring funny stories to the Green Dragon to share for a cup of anything from ale to brandy to wine. He had more innate information of the dark belly of Boston – of any city, really – than any man Haytham had ever met.

Charles was of course beside himself in hearing such words of praise for a man who drank and cussed and was an unrepentant louse.

Charles.

Ah, the boy had promise. He was a skilled combatant of course, with his military training; he was diligent and hard working. Whether he knew it or not he evoked the "pioneer spirit" he fondly admired in the Colonists. His admiration for Haytham was complete and unwavering, and Haytham privately admitted he liked the consistent stroking of his ego, but he also understood the dangers of a swelled head blinding one to surprises, and so he schooled his praise of Charles and made the man work hard, pushing him away when necessary to give his ego a chance to settle and prevent growing too healthy. What the boy really needed was a test of character, and Haytham was uncertain how to achieve it. But that could wait for now; Braddock would not arrive for several months yet, and Haytham spent his time wisely.

Twelve days later William arrived with his research in the last muggy days of July. The oppressive heat was only tolerable with the sea air sweeping in from the east, but any relief it afforded was compounded with even more moisture, and everyone was damp with sweat.

After taking the afternoon to settle in and wash off the travel dust, the three men once again moved to meet in Haytham's room, their default meeting place. Charles had been out and about, looking for Benjamin Church. His face was eager and excited as always, trailing after Haytham like a puppy dog and trying to get a word in.

"Evening, gentlemen."

Thomas belched in reply.

"Charming," Charles muttered, clenching his jaw.

"Oh, peace, Charles," Haytham said, keeping his voice even and cheerful. "He'll grow on you."

And, just because he knew it irked the boy to no end, Thomas put on his drunken persona. "Oi, Catherine ya fussock!" he called through the open door. "Git back here! Daddy needs a drink!"

Charles growled, Haytham ignored them both, instead looking to William. "How fares the search?" he asked. "Did your research at home bear any fruits?"

William shook his head, his faint Irish accent slightly thicker. "Maths and maps are not cutting it I'm afraid. While I know of many of their groves and caves, I simply do not know all of them. And, since I have yet to be reinstated as Indian Agent for New York, I'm limited in what I can do in an official capacity."

"What of your local contacts?" Haytham asked.

"We'll need to earn their trust before they'll share what they know. They've learned over the course of many years and many wars that no white man honors land agreements, and land once thought safe is captured by settlers. Asking them to reveal the location of a sacred glen would be impossible unless they trust _us_ as individuals."

Thomas, still playing the drunk, looked up and unhooked his legs, leaving them spread wide open. "I've an idea on how we might be effectin' that. There's a man who's taken to enslavin' natives. Rescue 'em and they'll owe us."

Haytham smiled at the simple but brilliant strategy. Charles pursed his lips and tried not to show his jealousy. "Do you know where they're being held?"

"'Fraid not."

And the boy could simply contain himself not longer. "Benjamin Church will," he said quickly. "He's a finder and a fixer. He's also on your list. I've just found his house, he's finishing his training for being a surgeon, some school named Harvard something or other."

That deserved a reward. Haytham smiled and put extra cheer in his voice. "And there I was, wondering whom I might solicit next. Well done."

Charles beamed, and the two set off the next morning after securing horses and mounting. The home was in central Boston, still about the brick roads, atop a hill and clearly rich enough to have a surrounding plot of land, it was of grey stone and in a style that seemed common in the city; five windows above, four below with a door in the center, the chimney off to one side and two minuscule little dormers peaking up from the roof. Charles had been there as early as dawn reconnoitering in the August heat, and now well into midmorning they hoped to have an audience with the new doctor and invite him to the fold.

Haytham knocked politely and the pair waited for a response. After almost a minute of silence Haytham tried again, eyes glancing past the white picket fence of the property to the broken barrel they had seen approaching the residence. When there still came no reply, Haytham tried the door. It was locked.

That meant he was at his practice, or perhaps at this school Harvard, wherever it was, or out for supplies or any other manner of mundane activities. Effectively, they were now forced to wait in this oppressive heat for an indeterminable amount of time.

"Wonderful," he muttered, stepping out to the lawn for a moment and clasping his hands behind his back. Charles saw his disappointment and frowned. For several minutes the pair waited before the dark haired Charles, in a fit of insanity, lifted his leg and kicked at the door once, twice, until it gave way to his force and he burst into the house.

Haytham was gobsmacked.

"Charles?" he asked, uncertain what to expect.

All he got was a polite, "Sir?" as the boy brushed off invisible dust from his coat and straightened out his clean-cut look.

For several moments Haytham was utterly speechless, uncertain whether to reprimand the boy for indiscretion or praise him for his initiative or comment on the fuss of others seeing the display of violence. He took a breath to say any number of thoughts running through his head, but in the end the boy got results, and means were hardly a point of question in their line of work. He said nothing, instead slipping inside.

Tables were overturned and papers were scattered everywhere; the hearth had several broken bricks from the impact of something, most likely the crafted metal candelabra that lay nearby. Blood was sprinkled about the floor in tiny drops, and Haytham quickly assessed the clear signs of a struggle, reading the scene.

"Seems like we're not the only ones looking for Mister Church," he said softly, hands still clasped behind his back.

"Dammit," Charles cursed, the first time Haytham had ever heard it. "He could be anywhere. What do we do?"

Haytham gave the boy a brief but frosty look. "We find him," he said, walking over the a portrait that must have been of the man in question and extracted his hid_den blade Jesus that's not how you use that thing is this guy a freakin' idiot? "Co_me, I'll show you how." Done cutting out the face of the portrait, he tossed the bit of canvas to Charles and they headed out. Neighbors were their first stop, and some of the women were more than happy to gossip.

"You could have seen it! They were surely drunk, carrying on like that. And during the day, no less!"

"Such scandalous behavior from one who aims to be a surgeon? Not likely if he keeps up such carousing..."

"A truly shameful display. Benjamin's parents would be mortified. They stumbled off to the northeast - no doubt in search of a tavern or some other place of ill repute..."

"There, you see," Haytham said. "Gossip goes a long way; we now know that whoever took Benjamin passed him off as drunk and headed northeast. Now we head in that direction. Start questioning those on the street with that portrait; take the time to listen. With luck, one of those people knows what became of Benjamin. I'll see if I can follow the scent of that story."

The pair split up, Charles a bit dubious but Haytham letting him learn this lesson on his own as he moved confidently from one crowd to the next, either asking after or planting the seed of the story of a man being harried off by others. More than a few were quick to perk at the story, only by then it had changed, but the theme was still the same.

"... I asked if I could help and they waved me away. Insisted it was all under control."

"They never said what happened. Only that it was a trifling matter and he'd be returned home soon. There was some blood, though... So I wonder if it wasn't more serious than they let on."

"They took him towards the hilltop. Perhaps there's a doctor at the fort."

The fort. Excellent. There were two forts in Boston, and only one northeast of here. Charles' connection to the army would easily get them in and after that it would be a simple matter of finding and tracking the blood. An hour later he learned from a pair of red coated soldiers that there were a few extortionists on the compound, and that one had gotten their hands on a man named Church. That was the last bit of evidence he needed. That was hardly a stellar endorsement of the trials Benjamin seemed to be going through. He found Charles showing the portrait to a haggard old woman who was less than pleased at the harassment. The boy, it seemed, was aware of his surroundings for a fight but not necessarily for information. Time with Thomas would cure that, and Haytham rather smiled at the idea of forcing those two to work together.

The new grandmaster explained what he had learned with no small amount of private glee, enjoying the look of marvel and wonder on the boy's face.

"See, Charles?" he said, rubbing in the point. "We'll have Church in no time, just as I said we would."

Charles was in awe. "If I might ask, sir, where did you learn to do all this?"

"It is a requirement when you are raised in the manner that I was," Haytham explained. "Perception is fundamental to the Order. It transforms the senses when one understands the nuances of perception. And we begin to know the world in a different way. You understand it at least in part from your military training; you can see men as fighters or brawlers or cowards. That, in many ways, is the easy part. The next is to see who has what you need, how to ask questions and how to manipulate answers out of people. Part of it is knowing who to ask – Benjamin is clearly a man of influential standing, asking a poor woman would get you very little. Asking housewives happy to gossip or fops happy to discuss scandal is more productive. Listening to soldiers has its own benefits as well. A man's mind is his most important weapon, and with so few who actually use them that men like us are at an advantage."

Haytham's apprentice was drinking in all the information, nodding and marveling and learning. It was a lesson he would take to heart, Haytham hoped. If he did then there was great promise for him in the Order.

They arrived at the fort and Charles was recognized in his uniform and easily breezed through. Haytham made a few indirect inquiries to where interrogation was done, Charles watching the display intently. One of the warehouses was given as a possible location. Confident that they had arrived at their destination, Haytham picked the lock and the two entered, moving slowly and silently. Two soldiers were inside watching the show while an officer and another ranker loomed over a bloodied man that matched the portrait exactly. Benjamin.

The officer paced back and forth, calm, detached, and almost bored. "Why must you always make these things so difficult, Benjamin? Merely provide me with recompense and all shall be forgiven."

Said man, face splattered with blood, leveled a hateful glare. "I'll not pay for protection I don't need!" he hissed.

A sigh. "Clearly, you _do_ require protection, else we wouldn't be here."

Benjamin spat a mouthful of blood in retort.

The officer didn't even react, simply said, "How very gauche." He turned to the private looming over Benjamin. Calmly, he asked, "Now, what shall we do about our guest?"

The man in question was obviously the muscle of this extortion enterprise. His cockney drawl was not charming like Thomas, but rather dark and menacing, the picture of a low-class brute his accent always suggested. "Maybe I take 'is hands. Put an end to 'is surgerin'," the brute said coldly. "Maybe I take 'is tongue. Put an end to 'is wagglin'." The brute glanced to somewhere far more delicate. "Or maybe I take 'is cock. Put an end to 'is fuckin' us!" Haytham didn't have a clear view but he knew a knife was being waved around as Benjamin's head darted back and forth away from the weapon. Even in the dim light sweat could be seen mixing in with the blood, breathing became short and ragged.

"So many options," the officer said, bored. "I can't possibly decide." He looked to his thug. "Take all three."

The private grabbed at Benjamin's neck, causing sheer panic to finally explode from the surgeon. "Now hold a moment!" he shouted, desperate. "Perhaps I was hasty in refusing you earlier..."

"I'm so very sorry, Benjamin," the officer said slowly, still dead calm, "but that door has closed."

"Be reasonable, Silas!" Benjamin shouted, voice breaking in fear.

A cold look. "I rather think I was. But you took advantage of my generosity. I won't be made a fool a second time." He paused for effect. Haytham admitted a grudging technical respect in how the man manipulated a situation. He used the same resume of tools that Haytham used, and to great advantage. He would make a great source of muscle if he wasn't about to kill a man Haytham needed. The officer turned to the brute. "I fear I lack the constitution to be witness to such barbarism," he said slowly. "Come find me when you're finished, Cutter."

Anger replaced panic. "You'll regret this, Silas! Do you hear me? I'll have your head!"

"No," he replied. "I rather think you won't."

A quick slicing sound coupled with an agonized grunt followed, the officer walking away.

A glance at Charles showed that he was not yet in position, and so Haytham let the officer Silas go for now. He would either be acquired or terminated later; at the moment it made little difference. The two perfunctory guards glanced at each other and smiled at the cruelty that was about to entertain them.

"Just a quick little swipe and no more ears! How's that sound, Mister Church?"

Bravado answered through the panic: "At least I'll be spared more of your inane prattle."

Charles nodded, at last where he needed to be, and as one the two silently stalked the two audience members, Haytham extracting his killing blade and grabbing his targets mouth before stabbing him below the rib_cage god his form is fucking TERRIBLE as Cha_rles took a knife and sliced his target's throat. Two steps later and the thug was in range and Haytham stabbed him as well, a surprised gurgle escaping his lips. Haytham missed the point he wanted, and stabbed a second time to garner a swift death. Benjamin was breathing so heavily his voice cracked, giddy giggles escaping as the haze of fear evaporated in the face of his saviors.

"Who... Who are you?" he asked as Charles cut him free. His hands instinctively rubbed his wrists now that they were loose.

Where that officer, Silas, was cold and bored, Haytham made sure he was polite and restrained. "Haytham Kenway," he said by way of introduction, "at your service."

"I... I don't understand..." Benjamin said, looking between the two men. With a better view Haytham saw that a vicious slice had been made on the sensitive membrane of his nose, covering the lower half of his face with blood and giving a liquid quality to his breathing. "Why are you here?"

"Walk with me, Mister Church, and all will be explained." Haytham pulled out his handkerchief, mentally wincing at the loss of it, and turned it over to let the man clean up at least marginally. Charles talked their way out of the compound and they moved swiftly to the Green Dragon. Charles was dispatched by Benjamin to retrieve his medical kit from his home, and in the span of two hours he was performing his own surgery, staring in a mirror after heating his own needle on a candle. The process was brutal, and Haytham observed with burgeoning respect as the doctor applied his craft to his own personage. His biography on Reginald's list had been the smallest, only saying that he was a student and well connected. What would he bring to the table? Influence? Political assurance? The man was in no mood to talk at first; his trial had of course been exhausting, and Haytham left the man to his own devices for a few days to collect himself and checked on his charter members of the Colonial Rite.

Charles had also, along with finding Benjamin, had learned that John Pitcairn was not actually in the colonies, but rather due to arrive much later with the contingent of Edward Braddock.

_That_ name brought some very dark memories, and Haytham sought out Thomas to distract himself.

"Any news?" he asked in the basement of the Green Tavern, Thomas' normal haunt when he was not working on something.

"Whispers of things, nothin' solid at the moment. I know you're looking for word of something out the ordinary, dealin' with temples and ancient times and whatnot. But so far, can't say my boys have heard much."

Haytham pressed. "No trinkets or artifacts being moved through your... shadow market?"

"Nothin' new," Thomas replied after a long pull from his mug. "Couple ill-gotten weapons - some jewelry likely lifted from a living fing. But you said to look for talk of glows and hums and look out for strange sights, right? An' I ain't heard nothin' 'bout that."

No distraction, it seemed. Well, "Keep at it."

Thomas offered a lewd but true smile, lifting his mug in toast. "Oh I will – you've done me a great service mister, and I fully intend to repay my debt, thricefold, if it pleases."

The gratitude was unexpected, especially from a man as irreverent and sullied in character. Haytham could only say, "Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas belched in reply. "Place to sleep and meal to eat is thanks enough. Don't you worry, I'll get you sorted soon."

It was a week later when the fever of excitement at last left Benjamin, and he was well enough to seek Haytham out after a sojourn into the city.

"Johnson's told me what you intend," he said simply. "I must confess I'm not sure I'm obliged to believe all of it, but given that you've saved my life I'm required to aid you. As it happens, the man who held me is the same one that you seek. His name is Silas Thatcher."

Charles, with Haytham at the moment, blinked. "That fancy lad is our slaver?"

The surgeon snorted. "Don't let his velvet tongue deceive you. A crueler and more vicious creature, I've never known.

Haytham nodded, not about to question probabilities; in point of fact it didn't take much to fancy the man an Indian slaver as well as an extortionist. British pay was laughable, after all. "What can you tell me of his operation?"

"Rumor is he hosts at least a hundred men, more than half of whom are Redcoats." Benjamin replied. He touched his nose, still healing from the stitches. "I tend to believe the rumors, I must confess. Still, he is involved in slaving, extortion, some prostitution of a kind – though what kind I know little of – and has been known to do murder if the price is right. That man Cutter was in charge of extortion, and he has a similar lieutenant for his other rackets as well. The man is a scoundrel and a devil."

"And he operates through the military, the soldiers? All this for some slaves and other small scale racketeering?"

"Hardly," Benjamin replied, snorting. "The man's a commander in the King's Troop, in charge of the Southgate Fort. It's where he runs his racket and collects his money. Rumor has it he has a mansion somewhere and a plantation-worth of slaves doing his bidding. And not just the spades either: the redskins, the spics, anyone he can capture. The slaves he sells all over the world."

Haytham nodded as the three of them moved to sit at their designated table on the second story landing. "We need to find a way inside without abusing Charles' connections; not after his recent heroics in regards to you. Hmmm... Let me think on it."

The silence hung for a time as Charles took his customary post at the top of the stairs to ensure privacy. William and Thomas eventually joined them and they began to sup. With their latest member now up and about, Haytham thought it prudent to perform further inquiries. "So," he said magnanimously, "a question for you: why medicine?"

Benjamin made a face, the fresh stitches on his nose making it ugly. "I'm supposed to tell you I care for my fellow man right? That I chose this path because it allows me to accomplish a greater good?"

The grandmaster cocked his head to one side. "Are these things not true?"

The surgeon shrugged. "Perhaps. But that's not what guided me. No, for me it was a less abstract thing: I like money."

Interesting. "There are other paths to fortune," Haytham countered, hoping to draw out a more lengthy explanation.

"Aye, but what better ware to peddle than life? Nothing else is as precious, nor so desperately craved. And no price is too great for the man or woman who fears an abrupt and permanent end."

Haytham pursed his lips. "Your words are cruel, Benjamin."

"But true as well," the doctor replied, unrepentant.

"You took an oath to help people, did you not? The Hippocratic Oath?"

Benjamin shrugged, adjusting his powdered wig. "I abide by the oath, aye, which makes no mention of price. I merely require compensation – fair compensation – for my services."

"And if they lack the required funds?"

"Then there are others who will serve them. Does a baker grant free bread to a beggar? Does the tailor offer a dress to the woman who cannot afford to pay? No: why should I?"

"You said it yourself, nothing is more precious than life," Haytham said slowly, disapproving what he was hearing.

"Indeed: all the more reason one should ensure one has the means to preserve it."

"You are a blackguard," William said.

"Nah; 'e's a realist," Thomas countered. "Man after me own 'eart 'e is. Best way ta make money is ta peddle in goods as people need, not want."

"That is profoundly deep for you, Hickey," William replied.

Haytham considered. Thomas, scoundrel though he was, was at least charming, and loyal to the money that Haytham paid him. There was general gratitude there, and Haytham was assured that it would remain so long as the pay was adequate. Benjamin, it seemed, was a man of similar nature, and they had already garnered his gratitude by saving his life. Most likely he would remain loyal as well. His callous perspective on human life was troubling, but then did not people of his own Order have such an understanding? Haytham personally loathed unnecessary death, but the Order itself understood human life was... as it always was. A Rite's goals could, from a certain point of view, be deemed in peddling life just as Benjamin had just expressed. Then perhaps there was a similarity in vision if one merely colored the lens appropriately. Nodding, Haytham raised his glass to Benjamin.

"Well, one can certainly be reassured that you will be paid more than adequately for your services, as our friend Thomas can bear witness to. One can assume, then, that over time your nebulous belief in our ambitions will settle to something firmer. In the meantime, I have need of your knowledge of Silas Thatcher and your connections to the upper echelon of Boston if we are to secure ourselves a permanent holding here. To a future of possibilities."

" 'ere 'ere," Thomas said, William and Benjamin all raising their glasses.

Humble beginnings, but one rife with promise, Haytham decided.

He looked forward to seeing how his plans unfolded.

* * *

Figuring out a plan to get into Thatcher's compound was simple. Ancient Greece bore many inspirations, and one was abundantly useful for such a situation. The problem was manpower. While Charles, young and enthusiastic, was a strong hand with sword and rifle, and Thomas was also a good shot and brawler, neither William nor Benjamin were the best with a blade. With William more often in books and trade and Benjamin sewing wounds instead of making them, he'd need one more strong and trained arm for what Haytham had in mind.

Which meant he had to wait for Lieutenant John Pitcairn. His military training would be most useful. There was no telling what condition the savages would be in once they infiltrated the compound, so Haytham knew he'd have to trust his own men. William headed west, back to his fort, to start making contact with the tribes again and getting more information. Haytham told him to start practicing sword work and marksmanship when he had the chance for self-defense if nothing else. William agreed, with the caveat of when he had the time.

Charles was still in the army, and he eagerly spent every moment of his free time under Haytham's wing. While Haytham soaked up the hero-worship, Charles was best trained by sending him off with Thomas to see the underworld connections that might be unpleasant, but necessary for an Order such as theirs. Charles never complained, though his expression was always contemptuously disgusted when he needed to head out with the scoundrel.

Haytham spent his time dragging Benjamin from his practice in order to teach him firearms and basics of sword work. To say that Benjamin was less than enthused was something of an understatement.

"Really?" the surgeon often growled sourly. "I already know all the damage these precious pistols do, I've sewn up enough wounds and cut off enough limbs to understand."

"But you need to be able to use them if you face danger like your dear Silas again," Haytham explained with strained patience.

"Fine, fine."

When not being annoyed by Benjamin, Haytham spent the majority of his time, particularly as winter started to settle in, getting familiar with the town and taking care of the contacts of _them_ whenever Thomas or Charles found them. By Christmas, Haytham was certain that _they_ had virtually no more contacts left in Boston, which he took great pleasure in. It was time to start hunting _them_ instead.

Reports of the War, started earlier that year, were everywhere in the news around town, and William sent a frustrated letter to Haytham on how the meeting he'd had in Albany between the British Governor Clinton and the Kanien'kehá:ka had gone abysmally. The Mohawk had rightfully insisted that the British abide by their obligation to block the French and their expansionist tendencies. Clinton was less than interested and the Mohawk Chief said that the Covenant Chain had been broken. This was bad, as it meant that the Iroquois would no longer stay friendly with the British.

The letter was shortly followed by William himself, seeking to spend a moment with Haytham for clarification on things best not put to paper. They were pouring over the journal that detailed Those Who Came Before on New Year's when Haytham finally stood up in frustration, almost knocking his chair back.

"This business with Silas confuses me!" he growled, pacing over to the fire to stare into its depths. "If Britain stands _any_ chance of pushing back the French, she must _ally_ with the natives, hold to her promises, not enslave them!"

William sat back with a heavy sigh and rubbed his face. "Silas is loyal only to his purse," he said, his soft brogue thick with exhaustion. "That his actions harm the Crown," he shrugged, "is irrelevant. So long as there are buyers for his _product_, he'll continue to procure it." William reached over for his glass of malt. "Damned slavery. I wish England never took it up. It's been properly dead for centuries in civilized countries."

Haytham nodded, still staring at the fire. "All the more reason to stop Silas. He's interfering with _our_ plans and that can't be tolerated."

"I spend long days in congress with the locals," William took another sip of his malt, "attempting to convince them we're the ones they should trust; that the French are merely using them as tools to be abandoned once they've won."

Haytham's lips thinned. "Your words must lose their strength when held against the reality of Silas's actions."

William gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "I've tried to explain he does not represent us, but he wears the red coat; he commands a fort; I must appear to them either a liar or a fool... likely both. Their communities are tighter knit than ours. Each of them is an ambassador for their people, where we all do whatever the hell we want." William shook his head. "Cultural differences remain the largest difficulty. Duplicity such as Silas isn't helping." He stared at his glass a moment, before downing the rest of it.

Haytham let out an internal sigh. Stiff upper lip. "Take heart, brother," he said, turning with a warm smile. "When we deliver them Silas's head, they will know your words are true."

William gave a wan smile. "Indeed."

Winter was cold, and anyone who was new to the colonies from England was shocked at the cold and snow. Where a British winter was almost predominantly rain, it was a surprise to see snow not only fall, but stick around and stay. It wouldn't just brush away with a broom, but required shovels and sleighs to navigate around. Haytham, however, didn't bat an eye at it. Compared to the Alps, this wasn't all that impressive.

Word arrived that Braddock and his men were arriving in Boston at the beginning of February, so Haytham pulled out an old red uniform of his that he hadn't worn in years and hoped to never have to wear again. It still fit, and a few extra layers underneath helped to keep him warm. It seemed almost appropriate that going off to collect John Pitcairn from Edward Braddock required the uniform he'd last worn when he'd seen dear old Edward. The dark memory thinned his frowning lips, but he put it aside.

Charles was also dressed in full uniform and they headed to the pier every day to check ships for British soldiers.

It was at the end of the first week in February when Braddock finally arrived in a massive man-o-war.

Typical.

But Haytham let none of his roiling feelings of meeting Edward again show. He stayed straight and firm, the picture of a perfect officer, Charles trailing after him. They boarded and found Edward screaming at the very person they were coming to recruit.

"Pitcairn, you _fool_!" Braddock yelled, all soldiers on deck at attention and forced to watch the upbraiding. "Your acts are _treacherous_. Give me _one good reason_ I shouldn't kill you right now," spittle flew from Braddock's mouth as he got right into John's face. John remained steadfast, though his eyes tightened in tension. "Did you really think I'd let you just _walk away_?"

"Sir," the lieutenant replied, his Scottish accent thick, "if you'd allow me to explain..."

"Explain why you're deserting after making the voyage over here? Oh by all means. I should like very much to hear this."

John's lips thinned. "I have not deserted, sir. I am here under Commander Amherst's orders, delivered by mouth to me right before we left."

Braddock scowled and scoffed. "Show me a letter bearing his seal and you _might_ be spared the gallows."

Haytham shook his head, remembering Edward's love of the gallows _all_ too well.

John was sweating in the cold, but remained firm. "I have no such thing... The nature of my work, sir... it's..."

Haytham finally pushed through the last of the soldiers. "It's the sort of thing best not put to paper," he interjected. "As you should know very well, Edward."

Shock dropped Braddock's jaw before a hideous scowl twisted his face. "_Haytham_," he growled.

"General Braddock," Haytham greeted but did not salute.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Edward growled, glaring with pure hatred. "Wolves often travel in packs. You're here to steal my meat?"

Meat. How apropos given Edward's treatment of his own men. "Master Pitcairn won't be with you for but a few weeks. I shall return him to his proper post once my needs for him have finished and it will be well before you finally get orders."

Braddock's nostrils flared in indignation. "The Devil's work no doubt," he hissed, stomping right into Haytham's personal space, completely ignoring how his men were still watching. "It's bad enough my superiors insisted I give you Lee. Even sent him here ahead of me even though he's to be under _my_ command. But you'll not get one more of _my_ men."

"Edward," Haytham said coolly, "listen to reason."

"I'm done with a coward like you," Braddock hissed back.

_And to think, I used to call him "brother"..._ Haytham held in a sigh.

"Let us go," Haytham replied, "and John Pitcairn with us. And we will bother you no more."

"I will _not_ have my authority challenged!" Braddock shouted.

"Nor I," Haytham replied quietly, back still straight, hands folded calmly behind his back.

"I will _not_-" Braddock got no further as Haytham, in front of everyone on deck, kicked out his leg, tripped Braddock to the deck, and then put his sword to the General's throat.

"I stay my hand today because you were once my brother," Haytham made sure to pitch his voice to the soldiers around them. "And a better man than this. But should our paths ever cross again, all debts will be forgotten."

In one swift and elegant move, Haytham's sword was once more in its sheathe. "You're free now, John. Come along."

"Traitor!" Edward growled as he got up. "Go on then! Join them on their fool's errand! And when you find yourself lying broken and dying at the bottom of-"

Haytham ignored the ranting and raving and took his two men off the ship.

Three blocks later, John let out a long sigh of relief. "Well that was certainly a bit more interesting than I expected," he understated. "What is it you require of me?"

"I'll explain everything one we have privacy."

It took the rest of the day to explain everything, including their progress, and the laborious task of trying to recount the lessons that William had attempted to hammer in to him. Haytham hoped he at least got the basics across, even if pronunciations were haphazard at best. Hickey joined them, drunk and seeking a quiet place to toddle off. Charles, as always, stood guard outside. Late into the night, they finally sat back.

"Fascinating fairy tales," John said, his tone rolling with his Scottish. "I may be too pragmatic for it, but what you want to do here, that I can get behind. If I may, though," and John asked cautiously, "I was curious about your past with Braddock. There was no denying you two clearly have a history."

Haytham stood and walked to the fire, staring into its depths. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Thomas wasn't as drunk, nor as asleep as he pretended, and Haytham simply let out a long, sorrowed sigh.

Reaching out, he put his hand on the mantle. "Edward was one of us, once upon a time," he explained softly, holding all his feelings back. "I considered him a close friend. He was brave, bold in ways few men are. But everything changed at the siege of Bergen op Zoom."

John let out a soft cuss.

Haytham let his thoughts drift back. He had finally hunted down one of Jenny's kidnappers when he'd run into Edward again. The kidnapper had died, hung by Braddock, before Haytham could learn anything, but they had started to work together against France. But at Bergen op Zoom, their fortress was lost and they'd had to escape.

"There was a skiff hidden at the port that we planned to make our escape," Haytham said quietly, eyes still watching the fire dance, hearing the cannon. Hearing the screams. "As we drew near, a young man and his family came upon us, begging for safe passage." It has been a clear duty of the privileged to aide and protect those beneath them. So Haytham had of course consented. Surely that was the obvious choice. No unnecessary deaths.

"But Edward refused." Haytham sighed. "The young man called him craven... so Edward killed him and all the rest... even the children."

Both John and Thomas cursed, though Thomas a bit more brutally.

"To this day I do not know why." He had seen that Edward was a harsh commander, with the highest standards expected of all his men at all times. But Haytham had suddenly looked back at it. The hangings of anyone who was out of line, and Haytham couldn't help but wonder if the wrongdoing truly deserved the rope. Had Edward always been like that, or was Haytham only now understanding something about his friend that he hadn't before?

"Either way, things were never the same after that." Haytham turned away from the fire, looking back to his recruits. "We campaigned together a few more times, but each outing was more disturbing than the last. He killed and killed; enemy or ally, civilian or soldier, guilty or innocent, it mattered not." Haytham shook his head sadly, squinting at the memories. "If he perceived one to be an obstacle, they died. That was it. He maintained violence was a more efficient solution: it became his mantra."

Haytham looked to the side. "And it broke my heart."

"I had no idea," John said softly, looking down to the table.

"He hides it well," Haytham replied, waving away the ignorance. "And he intimidates into silence any who might discover him. Those who persist have the tendency to find... misfortune and rope."

"We should stop him." John's face was twisted in the memory of that morning, most likely, and what he had barely escaped.

Haytham rubbed his forehead. "I suppose you're right, but I maintain a foolish hope he might yet be saved and brought back round to reason."

John raised an eyebrow and Thomas visibly rolled his eyes.

"I know, I know, it's a silly thing, to believe one so drenched in death might suddenly change." He shook his head. "Much like our enemy will never change, I doubt Edward will, but I still... hope."

John looked aside and sighed. "I'm sorry to have brought this up. It was not my intent to sour you."

Haytham realized he'd expressed a bit too much. So he smiled, putting away the memories. "Nonsense! We are brothers now. There should be no secrets between us."

Haytham brought Charles into their meeting the next morning; his spacious room now crowded with two soldiers, a surgeon, a scoundrel, a trader, and himself. The six of them petered around until they found room to sit or stand comfortably, and Haytham laid out his plan.

"Gentlemen," he said expansively. "I believe I've found the solution to our problem. Or rather, Odysseus has."

Thomas looked up. "Ody-ooh? 'E a new guy?"

Charles was quick to correct the man he couldn't stand. "The Greek hero, you lobcock."

"Allow me to explain," the colonial grandmaster countered. "We enter Silas' fort under the pretense of kinship. We overtake one of their slave caravans coming in to Southgate for inspection and use it just as Odysseus's Trojan horse. Once inside we spring our trap: free the captives, and kill the slaver."

Thomas gave a low, black laugh. "Dodgy, dodgy," he drawled. "I like it."

"Then let us begin," Haytham replied. "First we need to find ourselves a convoy... Thomas?"

"Next one's comin' in tomorrow," the thief drunkard replied, "One after that's next week. 'ow fast you fink you need?"

"Tomorrow would be preferable," Haytham admitted, "But that will be a testament to how quickly we can prepare. We can't take the entire caravan, but we if we can delay one of the wagons we can overtake it with the skills that we have here. We'll need uniforms for Benjamin and William; once we possess the slaves, we simply ride the wagon into the fort. William will act as interpreter, explaining our goals and our desires of an alliance. Thomas and I will free the savages-"

"_Natives_," William corrected. "For the love of God never let them hear you say that."

"Thomas and I will free the _natives,_" Haytham responded, "since we've the best skills in that area. Charles and John, will keep the soldiers from questioning too much by sharing old war stories and complaining about the weather and the pay. Benjamin, since you have the most personal investment in Silas' removal, you will serve as lookout. When you see Silas, let me know and I will clear a path for you. The honor of the kill is yours."

"Much obliged," Benjamin replied, darkly nodding in black anticipation.

"So then, our primary objectives in preparation are uniforms and armaments."

"I can get wot we need for guns," Thomas replied. "Got a guy 'ho owes me a favor. Get some right nice rifles I can."

"I can get us a few uniforms at the barracks," Charles said.

"Without Edward seeing you?" Haytham asked dubiously.

"Of course," the lad said brightly.

"... Very well," Haytham said. "We'll regroup at dawn to make the necessary preparations. Thomas, I want you sober for this."

"Don't tell me that fancy fussock over there's rubbin' off on you."

"Only a fussock in his own right would say that."

* * *

The next morning fortune decided to favor them, and it was snowing. Benjamin, the native Bostonian, openly laughed at any complaints as they changed into their uniforms. Thomas had reconnoitered the route of the caravan, there were only two wagons, and with a few well-placed barrels and one overturned cart assembled by Charles and Haytham the second cart slowly fell behind. A thick cloak hiding the red uniform underneath, Haytham and John stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted their muskets.

"What the hell is this?" one of the men on the wagon demanded, awe-struck at the brazen audacity he was witnessing. "Do you have any idea what we're doing?"

Charles, always one for a flare of drama, said, "Yes."

Both opened fire. The woman forced to sit between the men stiffened but otherwise did not react to the murder they had just committed. The falling snow muted the crack of the powder, and at this close range the poor aim of the firearms was negligible as the two men fell. Behind the wagon, the four escorts were similarly dispatched by John and Thomas, each armed with two pistols. The bodies were dumped into the barrels that had blocked the path and soon they were in formation.

William kept to the side of the wagon – iron bars giving the frame the look of a massive cage – and talked quickly to the men and women inside in their peculiar, guttural tongue. Haytham took the reins, seated next to the woman as the others fanned out to their positions.

Now that he was up close, he saw that the woman was dressed in the primitive leathers and animal skins of her people. Her black hair was positively the blackest he had ever seen, parted perfectly down the middle of her head and pulled into braids long enough to fall past her breasts. Her red skin – Haytham suddenly realized why they were called redskins – was flawless, but her features were severe and angular. Her gaze looked at nothing, staring ahead for a thousand miles. Her neck was adorned with a necklace of some kind – perhaps bone? - and the collar, if that was the right word, was adorned with a curious beaded emblem, an imperfect green circle. She sat with her legs wide apart, decidedly unladylike. Her skin-dress ended indecently at her knees, leather wrappings covering her legs in a modicum of modesty. Everything about her was foreign, even ugly. Haytham felt a revulsion in him that he did not think was possible to fear and he spent the first several minutes of their ride trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

At length, he finally realized that it was because she was nothing like an idealized woman; she did not sit like one, her dress was indecently short, her skin was not alabaster, her hair not coifed into some fashionable style, her features not smoothed, her body mostly shapeless because of the loose skins she was wearing. Realizing his own expectations were preventing him from seeing her as she really was, he realized he had betrayed himself. He may be special because of the Order he served, but that did not mean that people _not_ of the Order was automatically less so. This woman may well be one of equal measure for all he knew.

He made a concentrated effort to find out.

"We're here to help you - along with those held inside Southgate Fort."

The severe woman did not even look his way. "Free me," she said simply.

Haytham shook his head. "Not until we're inside the gate. I can't chance an inspection at the gate going wrong. I'll see you safe. You have my word."

She said nothing, did not blink, simply stared out to the infinite falling snow beyond her.

Haytham glanced a William, but he was whispering to an Indian in the cage and hadn't heard their limited exchange. Sighing, he flicked the reigns and began to catch up to the other wagon. William swung up to the wagon, taking place beside her. Charles and John, the two soldiers, took position in front of the wagon with Thomas and Benjamin in back to hide their nonexistent training. A chill wind picked up, cutting through everything and making both Haytham and William shiver, but not the woman.

"You must be rather important to Silas if he kept you here instead of in the wagon," the colonial grandmaster said to the woman, determined to change his first ugly impression of her. "Do you know anything of Silas' operation? How many men we might expect? The nature of their defenses?"

She said nothing.

Twenty minutes later Haytham tried again. "I wish you'd trust us," he said softly. "William here tells me that every member of your society has the ability to act as ambassador for your people. We are much different here. Men will do as they will, damn the respect of the uniform they wear. Our people must be judged one at a time, and so when I say that we, my men and I, are here to help, we are. Though I suppose it's only natural for you to be wary..."

Still nothing.

"She may not know the language," William said.

"She does," Haytham said. "She spoke once, but does not trust me to speak again." He sighed. "So be it."

Ten minutes later they road down an increasingly narrow strip of road, water on all sides; the Boston Neck, Benjamin and the other locals had called it. At the end was Southgate, the fort defending the isthmus of Boston from the rest of the savage wilds of the colony. The two-wagon caravan stopped at the inner gate when a duty guard held up a hand.

"Hold!" the guard said.

"Evening gentlemen," said the first wagon.

"State your business."

"Delivery for Silas."

"Go on, then."

They drove into the fort. The structure was not completely closed as forts traditionally were; rather, since it was on the isthmus between Boston and the Massachusetts colony, it was open to the bodies of water on either side: Boston Harbor and the Back Bay. Fort walls instead lined the north and south of the land, blocking the city and the frontier from either side. Administration was along the north wall, as to be expected since the city was to the north beyond the neck and the thought of attack most likely stemmed from the south – the only way into the city via land. Tents filled the small hills lining up against the natural stone of the southern frontier wall, as well as crates of supplies and carts of feed. The horses were kept along the southwest wall, and southeast was a tiny pier for docking. Buildings were in the northwest corner of the fort, the upper tier of the wall turned into an entire level with an adequate view of the interior of the fort and likely the city on the other side of the neck.

Haytham immediately eyed the important features he needed. Most of the prisoners were kept to the east, near a small port and away from the main body of the men. Three other cages were there, as well as several stockades where more Indians were being held. He and Thomas had their work cut out for them. Once they stopped riding, Haytham waited until the guards of the first wagon dispersed and then discreetly pulled out his belt knife and began sawing at the ropes holding the native woman. "There, see?" he said. "I'm freeing you just as I said I would. Now if you'll allow me to explain-"

But the minute the rope broke she smoothly slid over William, off the wagon, and into the grasses, disappearing over a hill.

Thomas moved to follow, but Haytham held him back. "Let her go," he said softly.

"But she'll give us away."

"No," Haytham replied, "she won't."

John came up with his thick Scottish. "The snow's to our advantage," he said, teeth chattering, "No one will want to move about that much, and all this white makes it hard to see."

"Unless you're from Boston and know this is little more than a flurry," Benjamin rebuked. "I'll start watch."

And, slowly, Thomas and Haytham began picking locks, William speaking in that ugly language and telling them where to hide until and escape route had been secured. Thomas and Charles disappeared, but their voices could sometimes be heard through the snow; John nitpicking formation and uniform while Charles remarked on the snow and the deplorably uncivilized conditions of the New World. It took over half an hour to work all the locks in the cold; the cages were simple enough but the by the time they had reached the stockades the fine motor skills required were nearly impossible with their numb fingers. Haytham took to stuffing his hands under his armpits to try and keep them even nominally warm as he walked from one stockade to the next. The Indians were silent, recognizing the need and proving themselves smarter than Haytham initially judged them. Haytham was surprised to learn how ignorant he was acting to a people he knew nothing about. Was it the animal skins? It was no wonder indeed that William was so stringent on how the Indians were addressed.

Once their work was complete, Haytham and Thomas joined the last of the freed prisoners and went over the hill to meet up with the others. William was whispering to several of them when he saw the colonial grandmaster. "Are we done?"

"All that's left is Silas," he whispered. "I'm off to meet with Benjamin now. We'll signal from the fort walls; when that happens Charles or John will open the gates, and you will all be free." He gave a meaningful look to the severe woman from the wagon, trying to impress his words upon her. She didn't even so much as look at him. Perhaps she truly didn't know the language...

Silently, Haytham separated from the Indians and traced the perimeter of the fort. Benjamin was at the steps to the interior of the fort, looking at the administration building with black anticipation. He absently rubbed the healed scar on his nose.

"He went in ten minutes ago, shouting at everyone he wanted quiet."

Haytham nodded, eyes taking in the guards and the patrols. Fewer existed in the interior, and fewer still in the cold and the snow. Nodding, he leaned in. "I have an idea," he whispered, and the two moved up the steps and deeper into the fort as Haytham explained his plan. Soon Benjamin was relieving a guard at the door to the administrative building and Haytham breezed inside five minutes later. On the second story he found the office he wanted and stepped in. Silas was bent over his desk reading a dispatch of some kind when he looked up. Having never seen Haytham before and assuming his orders were being ignored, he put on not the bored airs of a cruel madman but the angry ire of an officer.

"An hour of quiet was all I asked!" he shouted. "Instead I'm bothered not ten minutes later by yet more madness! I expect an explanation - and it had best be good!"

"Sir, I'm sorry sir," Haytham said, putting on his own airs of a terrified private giving bad news. "It's the slaves sir, they've escaped!"

A pause.

And then, genuine outrage.

"_What_?" Silas shrieked, bursting to his feet with such force his chair overturned. "How?! How did this happen!? My precious merchandise set free?! It's unacceptable!" Already he was moving, grabbing a cloak against the morning snow and shoving Haytham aside to see the damage for himself. Haytham followed. "Rest assured I'll have the heads of those responsible! But first... first we clean up this mess! Seal the fort. Kill any who try to escape. I don't care if they be one of us or one of _them_. To approach the gate is to be made a corpse! Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," Haytham said in bland tones just as they reached the door.

With all his bellowing Benjamin had more than heard the approach, and when the door opened the Bostonian was blocking the way, his face shadowed by the cloudy light outside. Haytham grabbed Silas' shoulder and spun him around before he could get a good look, and for the first time the officer truly looked at the man who had given him such terrible news, realizing Haytham was not a man of his company.

"Who are you?" he asked, suddenly wary. He reached for his sword to notice too late that his haste had prevented him from taking it.

Haytham stood tall, hands behind his back. Even in a private's uniform, he commanded authority; his voice was cultured and polite, and he decided to use irony by sounding as bored as Silas had months ago when torturing one of Haytham's men. "Name's Haytham Kenway," he said quietly. "You don't know me. But I believe the two of you are well acquainted..." He jutted his head to point to Benjamin, who was loading a gun and leveling it in the hall.

Benjamin's voice was dark, and he went straight to the point. "I made a promise to you, Silas - one I intend to keep."

He fired.

Blood spattered everywhere, even on the colonial grandmaster's uniform, but he took it all in stride, wiping at his face and shoulder. His surgeon dropped the gun, they had perhaps two minutes before someone came to investigate, and ran to the back of the building. "Here," Benjamin said, "Take my scarf; I don't mind snow showers like this and you need to hide the blood."

"Excellent. Have you practiced your English accent?"

"I've no talent for it," he replied in his best attempt, and Haytham was forced to agree. He would have to be spokesman. Taking a deep breath, the pair exploded from the back of the house, and Haytham changed the sound of his vowels, the pair looking out in apparent horror before Haytham pointed to the mess. "That way!" he shouted, drawing looks from a pair of soldiers that were approaching them. "He went that way! He's wearin' a uniform, the git!"

"What's going on?" one of the patrolmen asked.

Benjamin, to everyone's surprise – including Haytham's – threw up, pointing inside.

"The general's been murdered!" Haytham drawled, voice loud and panicked as he gauged their reactions. "The man wot's responsible just ducked inta the mess! We gotta seal it off afore he escapes!"

One of the patrolmen went inside and came out pale, also retching. "Shot in the head!" he managed.

The head of the patrol, a sergeant, immediately started to give orders. Haytham acted as though to take care of Benjamin, guiding him somewhere to sit before they simply disappeared, climbing the steps to the wall of the interior. It took some pacing to find a place they were invisible, and Haytham leaned in to his sick friend. "Is murder not in your taste?" he asked.

"Oh, hardly," Benjamin replied. "You forget I'm a doctor. I know how to make a patient gag if I need to."

Another skill. Excellent. Word had passed quickly to the main grounds of the fort, and the few soldiers out and about were running to the interior, leaving the gate utterly unattended. Haytham took off his tricorn hat and waved, and as one the rescued Indians walked and ran to their freedom. Leaning onto the wall of the fort, he watched. Now that they were all massed together as a people, Haytham decided the animal skins and curious skin tone and hair decorations were irrelevant; people were people, regardless of how foreign or unsophisticated their culture. And it was his and his Order's job to protect them.

His eyes traveled to the severe woman, and was surprised to see her look up and catch his gaze. He smiled slightly, pleased that she had seen him, and was surprised to see one corner of her mouth lift up in a smile. That one gesture made all the difference to her face, seeing her smile made Haytham see her beauty, the symmetry of her features, and a spark in her eye he was unable to see before. She was a woman, through and through, and she was grateful that she had been saved, and she knew the man who had done so.

Excellent.

In less than twenty minutes the Order was out of Southgate and regrouping at the Green Dragon. "What happens now?" Charles asked softly, seeing the reflective mood Haytham was in.

The Grandmaster of the Colonial Right gazed at the key that had started this quest. "We wait," he replied. The face of that woman filled his mind.

"Though not for very long, I suspect..."

* * *

Their assault on Southgate and rescuing captured Indians took place in the beginning of February. Now in the first week of March, Haytham was beginning to wonder if he had done enough in order to garner support from the people who lived in the wild. He wrote in his journal briefly, trying to organize his thoughts.

_It's been several weeks now since we freed the Mohawk prisoners from captivity. I had hoped their leader might make contact, but there's been only silence. My men grow restless. They want to know what comes next, and I do not have an answer. William is back in New York, trying to arrange meetings with the Iroquois and the Mohawk. Benjamin and Thomas have temporarily returned to their normal work; and John suggested he go back to Edward. When he suggested Charles come with him, the lad in his normal exuberance refused to leave the childhood hero he was serving under._

_Charles, alone, remains active - pursuing leads, however slight. He stalks the city streets and scouts the bordering woods - hopeful that he might make contact with one of those we saved and earn praise from me. He has been in my care for eight months, and his youth is making him impatient for promotion. I have yet to find a test appropriate to give him what he wants, and for now his desperation to impress serves the Order well. _

_There was a woman there, that night. Of a severe cut and precious few words; it was she who helped the others to safety. If we could find her, I believe I'll have my answers. A woman, after all, will be easier to impress than whatever men lead her people. That thought alone consoles me. So I watch and wait, hopeful that my true mission might finally begin._

Putting the quill down for the moment, he leaned back in his chair and stretched, looking out his window. When did this interminable snow cease? He had seen little else since November! Now piled easily up to his knees in unchecked parts of the city, crunchy and hard, white drifts from the wind pushed the cursed things up to the waist. Wagons were replaced with sleighs and the chill never seemed to leave. This was why he hated the Alps.

Sighing, he went downstairs to see how the Douglass' were doing when, to his surprise, he saw Charles in the main floor of the tavern, dining on some kind of meat. The food had only been recently served, the plate hardly touched, and the boy's face was bright pink from the cold. Seeing his mentor Charles immediately cleaned his mouth and set aside his dishes, sitting up and pushing his chair back to meet Haytham.

"Hello, Charles," Haytham said.

"Sir, I've just come from Fort Johnson," he said by way of greeting. "William sent word that a savage woman has been spotted just outside the Fort."

"Excellent," Haytham said, happy that once again the boy had come through. He was proving to be one of the most reliable men he had on his roster.

"We'll move faster on horseback than sleigh," the boy said.

"Very well," the grandmaster replied, "We'll give you a moment to get warm, and then we'll set out."

"Sir, we can set out now-"

"No. Eat first, let the rose drain from your skin for a spell."

"As you wish, sir," Charles said, hiding his relief and moving back to his slab of meat. He all but gulped it down, and Haytham deliberately dawdled with a cup of Dutch tea – terrible compared to good earl grey – and exchanged pleasantries with the tavern owners and other customers for over an hour, waiting until his apprentice's color was better, before bidding his adieus and braving the cold to go to the stables. In the span of twenty minutes they were saddled and ready. The breath of the animals was visible in the cold, as were their own, and the chill air hurt Haytham's lungs if he breathed too deeply. Once they were out of the city proper and traveling south on the neck, approaching Southgate, Charles eyed the fort and gave a small sigh.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir," he said, clearly wanting to avoid the topic but unable to withhold it.

"Oh?" Haytham prompted.

"General Braddock is insisting I return to service under him in Virginia. I've tried to beg off, to no avail. He left two weeks ago and is likely in Hampton by now. When he left he said I had until the colonial governors arrived before he would call me deserter and send after me."

That left almost no time before Charles absolutely _had_ to leave or be court-marshaled. Haytham nodded, having expected that ever since John went back; though he had to admit the boy waiting until the last possible minute to inform him of this was not terribly professional. Still, he could understand it; there were times Haytham himself tried to avoid disappointing Reginald. In light of that, he put on a conciliatory tone. "No doubt he's still angry about losing Pitcairn," Haytham offered, before adding a small grin to soften the boy's mood, "to say nothing of the shaming we gave him. Do as he asks. In the meantime, I'll work on having you released."

Charles still winced, pulling at his hat. "I am sorry for the trouble," he said.

"Not your fault," Haytham replied. "Consider it another lesson. Given Edward's clear opinion on the matter, it will behoove you to do your best to get in his good graces. His trust in John has been irrevocably severed because of our actions, but your youth works to your advantage; he sees you most likely as an unwitting boy following orders, and that in turn gives you the lassitude to reenter his very narrow circle of trust. Do so. For all we know I may need you there."

Somewhat mollified, Charles nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Shortly afterwards they passed through Southgate and into the frontier. Charles, who had been out and about more than Haytham, explained that most of the areas hugging the coast were fairly well settled; Lexington was east, Concord, Cambridge and its university that they were passing through, Arlington, etc. Farmland stretched over the hills as far as the eye could see, so reminiscent of back-country England Haytham wondered if he really was on a different continent. For the first two days he could hardly tell the difference between here and home aside from the age and lack of sophistication of the buildings.

However, the further west they went, the more wild the land became. Trees were suddenly _everywhere_, bare of their leaves and giving a deep, dark foreboding to the wilds of the new world. Haytham had met enough frontiersmen in the Green Dragon to know that whatever Charles thought this place was not "settled." Traders came in with the pelts of not just deer and elk, but wolves, bears, enormous mountain cats called cougars. Danger lurked everywhere in those trees, and yet men still settled here. Riding along the well-traveled roads only gave a semblance of strength, and Haytham once again marveled the strength of the people who decided to live here, with slaves and savages and animals capable of eating men in one gulp.

Smaller single dwellings – called homesteads here, scattered the entire countryside, always seeming to pop up just when Haytham though he was completely severed from the relative civilization of the city, with the traditional five-four-and-a-door style; five windows on the second story, four on the first with a door in the middle. Other homes looked like salt boxes, others were distinctly Dutch with roofs at two separate angles and dormer windows peeking out from the shingles. Stone fences were everywhere, to be expected with the rocks and boulders that seemed to be _everywhere_, massive touches of grey emerging from the never-ending blanket of white. The only color that existed were the evergreen trees, a species Haytham did not know the name of; everything else were varying shades of white, grey, and brown. Even the roads were white, only the ruts of sleighs managing to wear down to the frozen ground below and scrape at the earth to show what lay underneath. The wind, as Charles had mentioned, was strong and tunneled through the trees and along the narrow confines of the road, constantly ripping through Haytham's two cloaks and coat. Damnable season, winter.

By the end of the day they settled in a tiny little hovel of a hamlet. They averaged thirty miles a day, often less because of the snow, before reaching William's fort. They passed through it quickly, not bothering to call on William for the moment, and turning off the main road and into the wilds and making Haytham decidedly uncomfortable. Even in the plentiful mountains of Europe there were signs of man: lost wells, old ruins, an unmarked grave. Here there was nothing, the hand of man was nowhere to be seen, and it presented a dual sense of the power of the forest and the insignificance of man.

Well into the hills and away from any visible signs of civilization, the pair came across signs of a camp: a fire pit still smoking, footprints in the snow, an impression of a bedroll.

**"**We're too late..." Charles mourned.

Haytham held his hand over the fire pit, wisps of smoke still faintly trailing into the frigid air. "The fire's only just been snuffed," he corrected. "The snow recently disturbed. She's close."

Somewhere in the distance as a long, low howl, and their horses, spooked by the sound and no doubt the creature attached to it, spooked and ran off.

"Bollocks," Charles cursed.

The Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, however, was already thinking ahead. "Charles, go after the horses; tie mine up in that hovel, and then ride back to Boston and take the first ship south to Virginia. You have precious little time to return to Edward and still be in his good graces. Tell him I held you until the last possible minute, if that helps."

"But sir..." the boy started to protest.

Haytham pointed to the ground. "These tracks are fresh, they must be hers. At first glance it seems she took to higher ground. Out of the snow and into the trees. I'll find her, and begin working the Order's magic. I'll be fine. Go."

Charles looked utterly unable to leave Haytham to the wilds of the frontier, but he finally took a deep breath and turned, walking through the knee-deep snow to chase after the mounts. Haytham in turn began following the tracks. Whatever his concerns for the wildlife in this backwards part of the world, he knew he was a master of everything around him, and even massive creatures such as bears would hold no power over him. Reassuring himself of that, he began calling on his tracking experience and followed the trail the woman had so helpfully left. Reginald would be proud, no doubt.

It might have taken less time to track her without the snow; as it was Haytham pushed through the crunchy nuisance and every obvious noise it made. He heard another howl and pulled out his pistol to check that it was loaded. In the span of twenty minutes he came upon a clearing and saw an Indian woman crouched in the snow, working at some kind of hunting trap that Haytham knew little of. He moved slowly, trying to be silent and using the footprints the woman had already left. Inevitably, however, something snapped under his boot.

She whirled around with impressive speed, and Haytham recognized the severe features and the spark of life in those eyes. It was she.

And she turned and ran.

Haytham allowed himself to curse.

"Ah, dammit! Wait! Come back!" he shouted, chasing after her as she quite literally flew across the snow, hopping up to a fallen tree and running up its neck as if it were a sidewalk rather than an increasingly narrow tightrope and hopped up to a nearby branch. What agility! What _speed_, to do this in snow!

Haytham gave chase, torn between looking up as she danced from one tree to the next and seeing where he was going. Once, twice, thrice he misjudged his footing and fell into the snow, covering himself in the moisture that almost immediately soaked into his wools and exacerbate the situation further. "Stop running! I only wish to talk!" She seemed to slow, letting Haytham catch up before deliberately hopping onto an evergreen branch and sending its collection of snow toppling down towards him. He cursed again.

"I am not your enemy! Please, just hear me out!"

That only made her run faster, and after fifteen minutes sprinting and falling through the snow Haytham was becoming frustrated. "Gods, woman! Only let me speak! Enough with these games!"

Ten minutes later she slowed again, and Haytham was too busy gasping for breath in this blasted cold to determine if she was doing this on purpose of if she, too, was tired running through tree branches. He had just about caught up again when she darted ahead and Haytham began to feel real anger. "You try my patience, woman!" he shouted. "Do you not understand the King's English?!"

At last she breezed down to the ground and turned, her eyes aflame. Haytham nearly ran into her, her descent was so unexpected. As it was, he put his hands to his knees and tried feebly to catch his breath.

"Are you touched in the head?" she growled.

"Me?!" he shouted, indignant. Only it came out as a coarse rasp instead. He took several gasps of air and tried again. "I'm... Hay..." His lungs were too greedy, however, and he had to struggle through his words. "My... my name is... Haytham... Kenway. I..." He grunted at himself. "_I come in peace_," he growled, finally straightening and putting a hand to a stitch in his side. "I come in peace," he repeated, "So for the love of _God_ don't start running again!"

The woman stared at him through lidded eyes, perfectly still and showing no signs of moving. Haytham realized belatedly she wasn't even winded. Damn her. "What do you want?" she asked slowly, combining total suspicion with the tone of talking to an errant child.

"Well," Haytham breathed, "your name for one."

A long pause. And then,

"I am Kaniehtí:io."

Relief flooded through Haytham, happy to move his numb legs a little closer and take a straighter posture. Proper footing at least. "Pleased to meet you," he said, trying to imitate the name. "Gad... Godz-zi...?" He pursed his lips in frustration. Why was their language so impossible?

The woman took pity on him, however, and said, "Just call me Ziio."

"Diio?"

"_Ziio_," she corrected, drawing out the sounds slowly.

Perturbed but trying to be civil, Haytham tried again. "Ziio."

Another pause. "Now tell me why it is you're here."

Not willing to risk another breech of diplomacy over language, Haytham reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the green and gold ring that he had acquired at the opera and held it out. At once her suspicious eyes alighted with recognition and surprise. She snatched it greedily from his icy hand and held it close. "Where did you get this?" she asked softly, staring at it.

"From an old friend," he said simply, not about to explain the details involved.

Her eyes were lost in the ring, moving around to better see the markings in the grey light. "I've only seen such markings in one other place," she murmured, almost to herself.

In all of his dreams Haytham had never expected this woman would have actually _been_ to the Grand Temple. At best he thought she would recognize the markings and send him to some chief or leader to negotiate with. What luck! "Where?" he demanded, eager for more.

Diio pursed her lips and shot him a quick glance before her eyes were again drawn to the key. "It is forbidden for me to speak of it," she said, turning her head, feathers laced in her crown blowing in the freezing air.

What little patience Haytham regained after chasing her for some twenty minutes quickly evaporated; compounded by the month spent searching for her and his desire to see the Temple himself. "_I saved your people_," he hissed, stepping forward. "Does this mean _nothing_ to you?"

Diio's response quickly returned to the day on the wagon, staring ahead at nothing and standing perfectly still, wooden, and mute to the world around her. Haytham realized this was her version of contempt and saw his error. A wonderful start to relations with these people! He took a deep breath and steadied his emotions, putting them back where they were supposed to be. This was the time for diplomacy, and he forced his voice to be more conciliatory. He spread his arms in a passive gesture. "Look," he said, "I am not the enemy."

Silence once again answered him, but her stiff posture broke, and her gaze drifted to the key in her hands. She glanced at him, the spark in her eyes wiping away the severity of her features again, and her gaze told Haytham everything even before she spoke: grudging truce.

"We'll see if you speak the truth," she said simply. "Come with me."

They backtracked to William's fort, Haytham mentally grinding his teeth at more exertion in wet clothes, sore feet, and brutal cold. Said teeth were chattering, and his hands were numb all the way up his arms by the time they finally arrived. The sun was setting, putting it right around the supper hour, and Haytham admitted in a dark corner of his mind that he would kill for a hearth and a cup of _proper_ English tea, to say nothing of a proper _meal._

Diio was utterly silent through the travel; Haytham slowly deduced this was her natural state. Her eyes always looked forward, never wavering, her back perfectly straight no matter what incline or decline they were traveling. Such actions, much like the spark in her eyes, once more pulled Haytham's eyes away from her severe features. She was a woman who held dignity, self-respect. She was intelligent and she knew it, and was comfortable with it. It was so unlike any European woman, kept illiterate and stupid, leaving the clever ones like his sister Jenny bitter and indignant of their station in life. Diio was none of those things, and Haytham could admit in a small corner of his mind that he found it attractive. Perhaps that could be used to his advantage...? He would have to mull over that once they reached their destination.

Speaking of which.

"Where are we going?"

"This fort hosts soldiers who seek to drive my people from these lands," she said simply. "Red coats that were once our allies have become our enemies. They're led by a man known as the Bulldog."

Dark memories assailed Haytham. "Edward Braddock..."

Eyes flicked to him, even if her face did not change. "You know him?" Diio asked, a hint of accusation in her voice.

"He is no friend of mine," Haytham replied, not needing to hide his lack of affection for the man. "He is a major-general and head of the colonial arm of the British Army. He was sent here to fight the war against the French here."

Diio said nothing at first, happy to let the silence speak for itself, before she took a breath. "Every day more of my people are lost to men like him."

Ah. Here, then was the opportunity. Haytham could not think of a more perfect way into the hearts of the Indians, into the heart of this curious woman. "Then," he said with charm and poise, "I suggest we put a stop to it. Together."

"What do you propose?" she asked, still looking ahead.

Haytham was nonchalant. "That we kill Edward Braddock."

Her stoic expression at last broke: a tilt of the lips and raising of the eyebrows told Haytham everything he needed: she approved.

"But first we have to find him," she said. "The men here will have information."

"Ah, but I already know where he is," Haytham said, keeping the charm and hiding the smugness in his voice. Her gaze snapped to him, and he found he rather liked it when she looked at him. "He landed in Boston in the beginning of February to take his post, and now he is down in Virginia to meet with the different colonial governors and decided what to do against the French.

Diio looked at him for a long, long time. "Then that is where we will go," she said.

"Of course. In the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. Happy Fourth of July everybody! Did you enjoy the six-month wait? Our betas are still beta'ing, but they're far enough ahead that we can now begin posting. Everybody bow and give thanks to our long-time beta Tenshi our non-American beta Marina, and our history beta Jacob. They're worked really hard to catch all of our glaring mistakes to make the fic that much better.
> 
> Though we cut away as much as we could, Haytham's arc will last about three chapters. His is not a great head to be in, but he's interesting enough that there are the occasional insights. What we like most about this chapter is that, for a brief moment, Haytham realizes what a bigot he is and tries to correct it. We didn't get into it last chapter (because those author's notes were already too long), but to our way of thinking there are two kinds of ist - the deliberate and the ignorant. To picture a deliberate ist is to picture a KKK meeting: someone who knows they hate a group of people and are happy to hate them. The far more prevalent kind of ist, however is this ignor-ist. To use modern day language, someone who uses heavily coded phrases like "thugs" or "terrorists" or even something as innocuous as "you people" are being an ist without realizing it.
> 
> It's sooooooo easy to go into the politics - to reference the recent South Carolina tragedy or President Obama's tear-jerking eulogy, but we will simply say that for centuries racism and other ist tendencies were deliberately systemized into our very law, and breaking those chains will take a long, long time. If someone is told, over and over, through media and production and news and opinions, that people are a certain way, over time that someone will believe it. We speak from personal experience in this, teaching at diverse schools and learning the hard way how ist we sometimes came across without even realizing it. Self-awareness of that level is rare, and it's a small self-gratification to have Haytham have even that one moment of transcendence. It does not last long, however, he still uses slurs to refer to Native Americans and because "Diio" is a woman he already holds her as beneath him - just because he realizes his mistake does not mean he can correct decades of thinking and centuries of habit. Such is life even to this day.
> 
> Thomas Hickey rather steals the show in this chapter. He's the only charter member who doesn't take himself too seriously, and watching him push Charles' buttons was forever entertaining. Also, character development and Eddie Braddock. More on him next chapter.
> 
> Speaking of which, Next Chapter: A historically accurate Braddock Expidition. And a certain someone named George. :P


	3. Order of a Different Kind

The next day left Haytham with a terrible headache, a runny nose, and the utter inability to breathe. Cursed snow. Still, he was not about to show weakness to the seeming pillar of strength known as Diio, and so he procured horses and supplies after a quick meeting with William, explaining the situation, and leading the animals out of the fort to see Diio there, wrapped in a blanket and carrying little else. He offered her the more docile mare, uncertain how adept she was at riding, but Ziio surprised him again by speaking a few words of her native tongue to the animal before hopping up and situating herself. She looked at him and his saddlebags.

"You carry too much," she said.

Haytham blinked. "I'm traveling light," he assured her, "But I do plan on eating."

She said nothing, merely kicking her animal into an easy cantor and leaving Haytham to follow. They rode for several hours in silence, Diio uninterested in starting anything resembling a conversation and Haytham content to let her have her space. Trust needed to be attained first before he could press about the Grand Temple's location, and he had no intention of damaging it any more than he already had with chasing her through the snow or butchering her unpronounceable name. They paused midday for meal, Haytham with his simple rations and Diio disappearing out into the hills before coming back with a rabbit to cook. Travel light indeed, apparently she intended to live off the land literally. Hunting was a man's sport, and he respected her even more for being adept at it.

"We'll continue riding south," he said, feeling enough time had passed to try again. "Once we reach New York, we can charter a ship."

"I don't trust you," she answered, tone slightly sharp.

"I know," Haytham replied, not about to debate the obvious.

She frowned at him, her gaze locked on his features. "Yet you remain."

Haytham glanced down for effect, smiling and maintaining a confident tone of voice. "That I might prove you wrong," he said simply.

"It will not happen," she countered.

"So you say," he said, with just a hint of patronization.

"So I _know_," she insisted, her eyes fiery. Perfect.

All he said in response was: "Yet I remain."

She glared at him, unable to work around the statement he had just made, and he smiled, putting in honesty and sincerity along with confidence and charm. She would be a difficult conquest, but not his first and he rather enjoyed the challenge of it. Garnering trust from men like Thomas and Benjamin was easy; earning it from a woman like _her,_ like Diio, now, that would be an _experience_. He looked forward to it.

It took ten days to move south to New York. Two bouts of freezing rain made the travel miserable and the roads treacherous. Both had to guide their horses through icy roads to avoid laming them and once Diio was refused a room from a tavern owner. Haytham protected her honor by brutalizing the man – perhaps a hasty decision at the time, since it caused a much larger brawl and ended with a bitterly painful cut on his chin. Diio catered to him, rubbing alcohol on the wound in the first display of anything other than stoicism or suspicion he had ever seen. He took advantage of the situation to continue connecting to her, but she remained silent on her life and character. Though she did, he saw with some delight, look at him more as they rode. Using that as his measuring stick, he decided that by the time they reached the city she at least tolerated him.

While she was at home in the wilds of the frontier, she was most decidedly _not_ when on the ship; and Haytham took his turn to care for her as he explained seasickness and offered her tea spiced with ginger to settle her stomach – or emptied a bucket when the need called for it.

Virginia was noticeably warmer than the north, the late March air easier to breathe and full of the scent of fresh turned earth. There were also noticeably more slaves as they disembarked; farms and plantations growing tobacco and cotton were everywhere, and the spades worked the land with strength and determination, singing songs in apparent happiness of their trade. Diio's stoic look had returned, she refused to turn her gaze to the farms they passed, and Haytham wondered what it was she considered wrong with them. Then he saw an overseer whipping a boy no more than thirteen over something or other, and Haytham realized the problem: the owners did not adhere to their duty to take care of those under them. Haytham knew better, the _Order_ new better, and he wondered what he could do to correct the situation. Reginald had mentioned that there was a grandmaster further to the south, in the French colonies; Louis-something-or-other. Perhaps he should contact him and learn what there was to be done to teach plantation owners what their moral responsibility was.

Another goal was added to his list. If this kept up he would never have time to resume his search for Jenny. He hoped Holden was doing well in his absence. He also had an eerie realization as he watched the overseer drag the boy over a hill: how were slaves bought and sold? By family? He had always feared Jenny sold off into slavery, but now he had a better understanding of just what that _meant_, and he was repulsed by the very idea.

Diio must have seen his face, for she placed a hand on his arm briefly before pushing her horse ahead.

It was the middle of April when they arrived at Hampton. Haytham sent out inquires to see where Charles was as they rented rooms in a tavern. Sitting in a dim corner, Diio kept her back to the crowds, uninterested in their words and conversations, and focused entirely on her meal. Haytham, by contrast, was soaking up all the information he could as he saw soldiers and men in some other kind of uniform flit in and out.

Braddock was getting an expedition underway, heading northwest to attack French forts that were encroaching upon British territory. He was also to get the remaining Indians that were claiming neutrality to ally with the British. Virginia militia were offered from the Virginian governor, as well as a local surveyor who had been in the area the previous year during the disaster at Fort Necessity and was responsible for the road that they would most likely be using at least part way.

Based on the information of loose tongues, Haytham was able to start talking to the rough and tumble frontiersman who had come in to either be hired as guides or to sell off skins and whatever whatnot they accumulated out in the vast expansive wilderness.

Diio didn't understand what all the random questions were about as she narrowed her eyes and observed his interactions with the various people he talked to.

"Fort Duquesne." Haytham smiled. "That is where Braddock will head."

"And why did you not ask directly?" Diio asked, frowning. "Why ask thirty people when asking one soldier would have been faster?"

Haytham smiled. "So that Braddock does not know that we are asking. So that we are not remembered."

"You expend more effort than is necessary." Her face remained stoic. "Your people will never do anything simply."

Her preference of the direct approach was refreshing if, to Haytham's mind, naïve. "People lie. By going around like this, we avoid being lied to."

She muttered something he didn't understand. "I will go and speak to the tribes. We can set an ambush. The Monongahela would be the best point."

Haytham let out a low chuckle. "I'm so pleased you know where to fight, but I certainly don't."

"Useless," she muttered, before crouching down to the mud to start outlining the land – no, the river – of which she spoke.

Diio left to the untamed wilds to gather the Indians, and Haytham remained near Braddock. He sent letters to William, Benjamin, and Thomas to come join him so that they could trail the expedition and be ready for the ambush. John and Charles were among Braddock's men, and he was far more cautious in his approach of them. Braddock seemed to have accepted Charles's stories of leaving Haytham, but still kept Charles close. John was far more contemptuous of, and after John had left his unit briefly to meet with Haytham, thereby not being at Braddock's beck and call, was dismissed to punitive services under a different command. That was good for Haytham, as he merely collected John to work with, but John would have to return to regular service eventually.

"For now," he told his subordinates once they were all with him, "we need to focus on slowing Braddock down for as long as possible. Our native girl will need time to gather tribes and whatever diplomacy they do. So we shall provide it."

So for the remainder of April and well into May, Haytham directed an annoyance campaign of sorts. Every time Braddock wanted to start his expedition, something delayed him, much to his consternation, and Haytham would laugh gleefully in the confines of his mind as Braddock's abusive shouts of frustrations echoed over the camp.

The finest moment, that Haytham didn't have a hand in, was when the Virginian surveyor that Braddock needed came down with dysentery, and needed to stay behind.

Finally, on May 29, Braddock refused to accept any more delays or postponements, and marched out of Fort Cumberland in Maryland, with almost two thousand troops. Haytham and his men stayed behind them by about a day until they left the fertile farmlands and entered the vast wilderness of the frontier.

Braddock made steady progress northwest, steadily climbing the mountains which, according to locals, spread up into Canada and well southwest into Georgia and beyond. Haytham and his men made sure to stay at least two days behind the soldiers as a further precaution. They always made a cold camp to avoid detection, and the arduous task of climbing the mountains in summer soon made itself known. Even Haytham, who had traveled extensively in Europe, had to admit that it was hotter than he expected. Only southern Spain seemed to be hotter than inland America at this time of year. And this was at a higher elevation. Haytham dreaded to be back in the lowlands to see how hot that was. To make matters worse was the dampness of the air. Haytham knew he was much farther inland, and up in the mountains, but the dampness remained. It made clothes stick, sweat dribbled down his face, and if by some miracle the sweat dried anywhere, it itched. It made for an incredibly uncomfortable journey, but Haytham knew that discomfort was only temporary. Once this mission was done, he'd be back in more temperate climate by the ocean, where there was at least a breeze.

It was soon clear that Braddock was making a road a priority, and that his road didn't follow the natural curves and valleys of the mountains, but climbed and hopped from ridge to ridge, making more work for his men as trees were cut and land was leveled. He was spurning, it seemed, the road that the Virginian surveyor had cut the previous year, which even Haytham could see from his own scouting of the area, followed an easy path and, from what the locals had said before they left, would end with easy access to the Monongahela River.

Braddock truly was an arrogant fool.

They were riding below the ridgeline, the canopy of the forest providing a good screen, and riding parallel with Braddock's men.

"Where's your boy Lee?" Benjamin asked, panting on his horse in the damp air.

"Returned to finish out his service under Braddock."

Benjamin gave an ironic smile. "I imagine the Bulldog's none too pleased after the stunt we pulled."

"Lee's to spin a tale of my incompetence and beg for forgiveness," Haytham replied, smiling. "He's a way with words. Especially when it comes to flattery. He has already been welcomed back with open arms."

"Which would give us a man inside," Benjamin nodded, and then reached for his canteen again.

"Precisely."

"Unless you've underestimated General Braddock," John interjected, wiping sweat from his forehead. "He's a decent intimidator, and the noose is his only friend."

Haytham shrugged, swatting away another mosquito. "If I have, Charles will sense it first and make his escape. He's more clever than you think." Especially with the way he hung on every single one of Haytham's lessons.

John let out an explosive sigh. "First the winter was too cold, now it's too god-damned hot! And humid too! It's a right swamp, this land, I tell you."

William was swatting insects. "To say nothing of the mosquitoes."

Benjamin, the born colonist, scoffed. "It's the same with any of you Londoners," he replied. "One winter and one summer here in America, and you all lament the comforts of home. This heat isn't anything like the dog days of summer. It's only June; wait until August."

"Warm weather and bugs are soon to be the least of our worries," Haytham said, interrupting Benjamin's clear lack of sympathy.

"Wot?" Thomas asked from his horse, where he had adjusted to the warm weather by stripping off as many layers as he could. He was down to a simple cotton shirt and he had again tilted his hat back. "Ya mean the Bulldog? Please," he chuckled. "We'll be in that one's beef soon enough and onto the next. When this is done I'm taking a week in New York. It's high time I went 'n' saw the sights, wot now with havin' the pounds an' everyfing."

Haytham chuckled. "Of empty whiskey bottles and women's breeches, no doubt."

Thomas laughed, his smile unrepentant. "What other kinds of sights is worth seein'?"

All the men shared a good laugh.

Along the way, Haytham always made sure to search Braddock's various campsites. Charles was indeed clever, and had made sure to leave a letter at each campsite, under a rock with a crude scratching of the sign of their order. In it, he detailed everything he learned to provide as much information for Haytham as he could, in his usual enthusiastic manner.

Braddock, though it was hard to tell with his harsh methods, had favorites, and one was the Virginian surveyor that was an aide-de-camp. It seemed Braddock didn't care one bit for one of his favorites to have been struck with dysentery. Charles never admitted it openly, but it was clear in his writing that he was vaguely jealous of this Virginian. The Virginian militia lacked the class of the British, though their chief of scouts was proving competent, particularly with the Indians. The Mingo Indians knew the area very well, and were apparently an off-shot of the Iroquois. However, the Virginian scout and the Mingo did nothing to convince the Indians they met along the way, the Delaware, to join the British against the French and Indians further west. Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Gage, a stout British commander with ambitions was head of the canon in the vanguard, well back from Braddock's main forces that were building the road and inching along bit by bit every day. Horatio Gates, another strong British officer, though still young, showed promise for the more administrative details.

Braddock was showing his cruelty, Charles noted. A Virginian teamster by the name of Daniel Morgan was given four hundred and ninety nine lashes for striking a superior officer. Such a whipping would normally be a death sentence, but Morgan had survived and was with Gage in the rear, healing from the ordeal. A fellow teamster, Daniel Boone, was said to be helping him heal and staying with the vanguard to keep the fiery Morgan from any more outbursts.

Haytham made sure to keep his men out of sight of Braddock, and the cold camps without fire became quite wearisome. Dried fruit and meat were hearty, and stopping at any of the creeks and streams kept a fresh supply of water, but the month of such fare were starting to wear on his men. He knew that Diio and her allies were setting an ambush, but he didn't know where or how to find her. He was starting to despair, wondering if she had somehow been caught or killed. He had no way to find her, no allies with the Indians to contact. William was close with the Iroquois, but they would not be facing Iroquois. While his Irish companion was fluent in Iroquois and Algonquian, the numerous dialects were too many for any one man to know. William had tried to explain that sign language, using hands to convey words was the best method for avoiding dialect errors, but Haytham failed to see how twitching a finger could convey what a human voice could.

But he never let his worry show. He was the leader of the Colonial Rite, he could not let his worry over anything show. He needed to remain calm and confident. So Haytham sweltered in the humid heat, scolded Thomas and his nudity of only wearing a cotton shirt, and chatted with John, William, and Benjamin.

June turned into July, with the heat continually increasing, and by the end of every day, Haytham was grateful to make camp and at least pretend to wash up. Rain had just passed a few days before, slowing Braddock down yet again as the British had barely made two miles distance, leaving Haytham attempting to keep his men from idle boredom. Scouting ahead himself, he came across a small cave that was well hidden from the ridge line, and decided a properly warm meal and fire might be in order.

Thomas produced some sort of liquor he'd been keeping with him for celebrating a proper victory, and William was able to bring in some squirrels and rabbits from snares he'd set to have properly fresh food. With a protected fire, meat, and alcohol, the evening turned very jolly in deed.

"...on the cold, cold ground!" Thomas was belting out, staggering from having drunk most of the bottle himself, and Benjamin gave a slightly tipsy "Hear, hear!" when a hand ghosted along Haytham's shoulders and a husky alto whispered in his ear.

"Hard at work, I see."

Haytham whirled, surprised. _No one_ snuck up on him, _he_ did the sneaking. But there was Diio, kneeling down with an amused quirk to one corner of her mouth and a soft chuckle. "How did you..." _No one_ snuck up on him!

"It is time," Diio ignored his question. "We have camp to the north." She gave a satisfied smile. "Come."

The others seemed to notice her, and looked to Haytham. While he didn't care for the embarrassment of being caught unawares, the fact that she _could_ was intriguing. Fascinating that she was so well versed in silence and stealth. But those were thoughts for a different time.

"Gentlemen!" Haytham stood, dumping his water on the fire. "Let us away."

Her camp was two days north, and was filled almost entirely with natives. Haytham spied a few French, but Diio kept him away from them.

"I see you've been busy," he understated.

Diio nodded. "All the men are from many different tribes, united in their desire to see Braddock sent away. The Abenaki, the Lenape, the Shawnee."

"Really," William stepped forward, surprised. "I thought the Lenape, that the Delaware, claimed neutrality."

Haytham turned with a questioning glance.

"The Delaware _are_ the Lenape," William answered quietly.

Diio smiled. "They do. The Lenape will not choose between the British or the French. But against Braddock, they stand."

"But the Abenaki are from New England. The Lenape from back east, towards the Atlantic, and the Shawnee... aren't they west of the mountains?" William ran a hand through his hair. "Just how far has Braddock been pushing people away? He hasn't been everywhere."

Diio narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps not all tribes have faced the Bulldog's bite, but can not one tribe understand another's plight? Can not a group unite against one who would harm all?" She shook her head. "With us are also the Odawa, Ojibwe, and Potawatomi."

William nodded. "Now that sounds like French allies."

Diio kept talking, ignoring the interruption. "The Canadian commander, Beaujeu, is in charge, but he knows not of us. Only that I brought other allies."

Haytham nodded, absorbing all the gibberish names that Diio could pronounce so precisely. "And you?" he asked quietly, looking to her sparking eyes. "Who do you stand for?"

"Myself," she replied, looking away.

Haytham said nothing, only looked at her with kindness. There was a story there, one he was curious of, but would not pry.

"Very well," he said. "What would you have me do?"

"We will prepare an ambush." Diio took Haytham and his men further into to Indian camps. "We are sending a small delegation to the British, requesting that they halt their advance so that a negotiation of a peaceful withdrawal of Fort Duquesne might be arranged. It will delay so that we might better prepare at the Monogahela River."

Haytham nodded. "Very clever. I will sneak in with the delegation and join the British so that I might keep a better eye on Braddock and kill him when the time is right. I would recommend my men stay with you to help prepare."

Diio considered for a moment. "Warraghiyagey will go with you. If anything goes wrong, he may return with word." William nodded at his native name being used.

Haytham nodded again and gave one of his more charming smiles. "As you wish, my lady."

She raised a brow, unimpressed, but did give the barest of smiles.

Haytham was once more in his British uniform, joining the column seamlessly. The Virginian surveyor, who had finally caught up after his bout of dysentery (which wasn't that hard given how slowly Braddock had been going), and the chief of scouts were walking to the fire of the camp the British had made.

"Tell me you've good news," the chief of scouts said.

The Virginian held himself stiff and formal, his lips in a thin line. "General Braddock refused the offer," he said quietly. "There will be no truce."

"Dammit," the scout growled, aware of decorum in the camp. "_Why_, George? What reason did he give?"

The Virginian surveyor, George, continued to hold himself still, frustration radiating off of him, but he remained polite and courteous. "He said a diplomatic solution was no solution at all. That allowing the French to retreat would only delay the inevitable conflict, one in which they'd now have the upper hand."

Haytham let out a quiet sigh. That certainly sounded like Braddock.

"There's merit to those words," the chief of scouts said quietly, "as much as I hate to admit it. Still... can't he see this is unwise?"

George's jaw tightened. "It doesn't sit well with me either, John. We're far from home with our forces divided. Worse, I fear General Braddock's bloodlust makes him careless. It puts the men at risk." The large Virginian sighed. "I'd rather not be delivering grim news to mothers and widows because the Bulldog wanted to prove a point."

John muttered a curse. "Where's the General now?"

"Rallying the troops for crossing the river tomorrow."

_Dammit._

"And then it's on to Fort Duquesne, I assume?" John shook his head. "Damnable London arrogant pride. It always gets us all killed."

Haytham had already slipped out to the dark, where William was waiting. This would give Diio and the French and Indians less time.

Any who questioned Haytham on who he was or why he was there, he simply said he'd come up from the supply caravan. He stayed away from officers the following day as they crossed the river and kept his head down, imitating the low brow Cockney accent when appropriate. The ninth of July proved to be just as hot and muggy as the previous day, but Haytham was working hard to not only handle the thick air, but also the knowledge that things were about to go wrong. Diio had less time to set up the ambush, and Braddock was charging ahead relentlessly like he always did. So Haytham double checked his musket and the pistol he had hidden away in his saddlebags, making sure everything was loaded, dry, and ready. Once across the Monongahela River, he edged his way closer to Braddock's command.

"Everything alright, sir?" the Virginian surveyor, George, asked.

"Just savoring the moment," Braddock smiled harshly, his face twisted. "No doubt many wonder why it is we've pushed so far west into these damned uncrossable Allegheny mountains. Why not leave the untamed and unsettled land to the French? But it shall not always be so." Braddock gestured to the dense forests. "In time, our holdings will no longer suffice. And that day is closer than you think. We must ensure that our people have ample room to grow and further prosper. Which means we need more land!"

Haytham shook his head. Imperialism at its finest. No one crown could hold all of that. But an Order might.

"The French understand this and endeavor to prevent such growth," Braddock spat.

More likely the French were just as damnably imperial as the British.

"They skirt around our territory, erecting forts and forging alliances, awaiting the day that they might strangle us with the noose they've built." Braddock was no longer smiling, but scowling as harshly as he did everything. "This must _not_ come to pass! We must sever the cord and send them back! This is why we ride. To offer them once last chance. The French will leave Fort Duquesne and the rest of the Americas, or they will die!"

George said nothing in reply, merely kept looking straight ahead.

"Go check on your damn militia, Washington," Braddock finally growled. "It's the only thing you're good for."

It appeared that this Virginian surveyor was not always Braddock's favorite aide-de-camp.

From the front came a thunderous sound, stopping everyone in their tracks.

Being only ten miles from the fort, it was no surprise that the French had started an attack, but Haytham was uncertain if it was the ambush that Diio was setting up. He didn't know if William had enough time to reach her, and given that the diplomatic talk was supposed to take a few days in order for her to set up some sort of surprise, Haytham didn't know if she was improvising or if it was the French that had even started the attack. Braddock and his staff halted, waiting for a courier from the front. Lieutenant Colonel Gage was with the advance guard of three hundred grenadiers and some of the canon.

Everyone stood, waiting, and soon Gage's canon were firing. Riding swiftly back, a courier reported that the British had come upon the French and Indians, who were using the ravines to try and rush towards the river. Reports were sketchy, rumor had it that the French commander was already down.

But the musket fire from the front continued. Braddock wheeled around his troops, shouting orders left and right, and sending messages to not only Gage's men in the advance guard, but also the column in front of him, the men around him, and to his rear guard. With the demoralization of the French, it would be easy for the British to advance and conquer the fort.

_Dammit all! Diio didn't have enough time!_

Haytham squinted, trying to see as more rounds of fire exploded through the dense forest of spruce and fir. Within a few hours, however, the sounds of fire were much closer, and less organized. It seemed the French _weren't_ demoralized, and were advancing along both flanks with unbelievable speed. _Because Diio is leading them, not some Frenchman._

Soon word arrived that Gage and his advance of grenadiers and his canon that were falling back. The road was too narrow and soon troops were on top the column ahead of Braddock, which was quickly advancing after hearing the commotion in front of them, per Braddock's orders. But the retreating British and advancing British crashed into each other, not knowing who was part of which regiment or unit, and more shots were approaching. Everything was dissolving into chaos and reports from the officer corps were becoming more disjointed as they tried to organize the grenadiers and regulars who had devolved into outright panic. And now, not only were the French sniping at their flanks, but they were advancing down the road as well.

Braddock was bellowing orders left and right, attempting to get reorganized and all of his officers followed suit. Gage attempted to use the canon again, but the road was too narrow, the forest of spruce and fir too thick, and the situation to confused. The advance column of grenadiers, the other advanced column, all had collapsed in the span of a few hours and were coalescing around Braddock's main force and still running. The Virginian militia men were assumed to be French and fired upon as the chaos continued to build and build.

Braddock's anger echoed across the field. "I'll not tolerate any doubt or cowardice among those I command! No sympathy for the enemy! I have no time for such insubordination! When we win this war it will be because men like you listened to men like me! And did so without hesitation! We must have order amongst our ranks and a clear chain of command! Leaders and followers. Without structure there is no victory! Now _get into your regiments and form up!_"

Navigating the chaos had been difficult, his horse almost tripping over all the fleeing men who were enshrouded in the fog of fear and running for their lives. But Haytham was finally up behind Braddock, his pistol out. Hours of chaos and combat in the muggy heat were taking their toll, and Haytham took a moment to wipe sweat from his face as he leveled his pistol.

"Edward," he greeted in a shout over the musket fire. "Not so fun on the other end of the barrel, is it?"

"Such arrogance," Braddock spat. "I always knew it would be the end of you. _Is_ the end of you."

Braddock reached for his pistol, but Haytham fired.

Braddock's side exploded, blood spurting from in front and behind as he fell from his horse.

"You're a hypocrite," Braddock growled, clutching at his side. "Why, Haytham?"

"Your death opens a door. It's nothing personal." Haytham's lips thinned. "Well, maybe it _is_ a little personal." All Haytham's control, all his poise and veneer disappeared into nothingness as he let his true self free. "You've been a pain in my arse, after all."

"But we are brothers in arms," Braddock spat out, still clutching desperately at the hole in his side and unable to hold the matching whole in his back.

"Once, perhaps," Haytham conceded coldly. "No longer." Leaning forward in his saddle, Haytham hissed out his fury. "Do you think I've _forgotten_ what you did? All those innocents slaughtered. And for _what_? It does not engender peace to cut your way to resolution. Those who rule _protect_ those beneath them."

"Wrong!" Braddock growled, still twitching and unable to stop. "Were that we applied the sword more liberally and more often, the world would be a better place than it is today."

Ruling by fear. Machiavelli had his merits, after all. "In this instance," Haytham growled, "I concur. Farewell, Edward."

Haytham dropped his pistol and lifted his musket, but there was still battle engulfed around him. The chaos had caught up and a stray shot brought down his horse, pinning him.

"The general is down!" came an American call. "All forces! Gather up the general! We must retreat!"

An American creating order. Who'd have thought. Haytham scowled, trying to free his leg from the damnable horse lying atop it.

"General, help is on the way. We shall remove you to the rear."

Haytham twisted, watching the Virginian surveyor, George, gather a rag-tag squad to lift Braddock and start carrying him away. The Virginian kept shouting orders, calling on people by name and starting to get an organized retreat with the officers. Dammit all! He'd lost his chance. Granted, the musket wound would probably kill Braddock, it would simply take longer.

Realizing that, Haytham was somewhat glad that this Virginian was able to spirit Braddock away. A long and lingering death would likely still be too easy. All around him on the ground were British officers, the men who had tried to rally the regulars and been cut down for it. For the moment, Haytham stopped struggling, played injured or dead, and just took some time to rest after the hot and chaotic day.

Once darkness fell, Haytham worked more precisely in unburying his leg. His ankle was horribly twisted, and it was painful to walk, but using a fallen musket as a crutch, he hobbled to the meeting point. He managed to pull his boots off his swollen foot only by cutting it off and settled in to wait.

He had pulled hard cheese from his pack and was chewing when he was suddenly aware of a presence in the dark.

"You are injured."

Diio. Haytham smiled in the night. "Not terribly. I've survived far worse."

There was only silence in the night for a moment, before Diio helped him to his feet.

"It is done," Haytham lied softly. Diio was a far more pleasant crutch to use than a musket. "Now I've upheld my part of the bargain. I expect that you will honor yours?"

Diio said nothing, but stayed by his side in the dark until they were back with Haytham's men.

Benjamin cleaned the foot and wrapped it, telling Haytham to make sure he stayed off it, and kept the cool compresses on it. With Braddock dying somewhere, there was no need to keep them here, so Haytham told them that they could all head back to their lives and he'd get in touch. Alone with Diio, she took him through the forests of the frontier. She walked, guiding the horse, and hunting for food, and setting camp. Haytham had servants back in England, like his loyal friend and coachman Holden, and all the help that worked under Reginald as Haytham had been raised. Having others do his work for him was nothing new. But Diio wasn't a simple maid who was only capable of cooking and cleaning. She was self-reliant. She did everything that was needed not because he insisted or asked her to, but because it was simply what she did. She would come to camp with wild fruits or mushrooms, a fresh rabbit for the fire. She would check his ankle, discover some stream or creek he hadn't noticed, and dampen the compress on his ankle or refill their canteens.

Her constant practicality was appealing. A European woman didn't deal in what was needed, she dealt in what was fashionable, or gossip. And the quiet grace Diio exhibited in every move just endeared her further to Haytham. She would be a conquest indeed.

Haytham had lost track of the days, and no longer was sure if it was July, August, or perhaps even September with the slower, more measured pace they had taken up through the mountains. By then he had healed and was helping her with the hunting. Dogs would be more useful, and he would quietly explain how hunting worked in England, with dogs to scent out the prey, and scare it into an easy shot. Diio asked questions, seeking details, and seemed convinced that it was somehow cheating.

The fact that she was finally conversing was a pleasure, and her low, husky voice almost seemed to follow him into his dreams. She still said nothing about herself, or her people, but that didn't mean she didn't have anything to say.

When they at last arrived at their destination, Haytham was clueless on where he was and doubted he'd ever be able to find this place again. He'd need to make markings of some sort when he went to gather his men to start studying what was in this Grand Temple.

It was a dark ca_ve, holy shit this looks famil_iar, and in the light of their torches, he could see crude, primitive drawings of some kind. Diio pulled out the strange ring and gave it to Haytham. He stepped forward, already seeing a strange blue-green glow from both the ring and the wall, proving their connections! This was it!

But the lights just faded.

"No... _No_!"

Haytham held back a sob of frustration. All that journeying, all that research, killing Braddock, twisted as he had become, yet still an old friend of times passed, all this for _nothing_.

"You seem disappointed," Diio said quietly, stepping forward.

He looked away, then up in an attempt to hold back his tears. "I thought that I held a key that would open something here..."

"This cave is all there is," she replied quietly.

"I expected... more," his voice was watery, and he turned his back to her, attempting to regain control of himself. He stared at the red paintings, the tall shadowed figures, the small approximations of man, and beast. He cleared his throat. "What do they mean?"

"It tells the story if Iottsitíson, who came into their world and shaped it for what life might come." Diio lay her torch on a stone and stepped forward, hovering her hand over the paintings, but not quite touching them. "She had a hard journey, fraught with great loss and and peril. But she believed in her children and what they might achieve." She turned, her eyes sparkling. "And though she is long gone from the physical world, her eyes still watch over us." She stepped forward, brushing a stray hair from his eyes. "Her ears still hear our words." The hair was brushed behind his ear. "Her hands still guide us."

And her hands brushed down his arms to hold his hands.

"And her love still gives us strength."

Haytham didn't want his conquest of this strong woman to be because he was being overly emotional. But she had been... wonderful. "You have shown me great kindness, Diio," he said softly, squeezing her hands. "Thank you."

"_Ziio_," she corrected. But she still smiled.

Neither moved.

"I... uh," Haytham stuttered as Diio stepped closer. "I should go."

But Diio had pulled him down into a kiss.

Haytham stayed with her for two weeks, simply enjoying their time together. But he needed to inform his Order of what they had found. She guided him for many days until they reached William's trading post. The others were summoned, and within a week, they were all sitting in William's study.

"Master Kenway," Charles started, after Haytham entered. "Did you find it, then?"

Haytham shook his head. "It was not the right place." He turned to the rest. Thomas still had his foot on the table, as he always did. William was at the head of the table, since this was his home, pouring out drinks as a good host. John was sitting straight, hands folded neatly, his military training evident even here, and Ben brushing off crumbs from the table. "Gentlemen," he greeted. "I fear our 'temple' was no more than a painted cave. Although it did contain precursor images and script, which means we are close."

Thomas scoffed. "Not close 'nuff it seems."

"We need to redouble our efforts," he glanced at Charles, "expand our Order, and establish a permanent base here. Although the site eludes us, I am confident we have other goals we can accomplish."

Getting rid of _them_ for starters. That would be the first priority. And a war was always such a wonderful excuse to get rid of enemies.

"Truth!" John agreed.

"Furthermore, I believe it is time we welcomed Charles into our fold."

Charles gave a soft inaudible gasp.

"He has proven himself a loyal disciple, and served unerringly since the day he came to us. He should be able to share in our knowledge and reap all the benefits such a gift implies. Are any opposed?"

They were all smiling.

"Very well." Haytham turned, savoring the startled gape on the young man's face. "Charles, come, stand."

The boy quickly complied, his back rigid as if he were at inspection in the army.

"Do you swear to uphold the principles of our order and all for which we stand?"

"I do," he said quietly.

"And never to share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?"

"I do."

"And to do so from now until death – whatever the cost?"

"I _do_."

Haytham smiled. "Then we welcome you into our fold, brother. Together we will usher in the dawn of a New Worl_d what? O_ne defined by purpose and order. You are a Templar. May the Father of Understanding guide us."

Everyone stood. "May the Father of Understanding guide us."

_Wait, what?! What the _fuck_?_

* * *

Desmond slammed closed the partition that lead to that ancestor, slammed it with all his might. That philosophy, that belief in someone being better and ruling the idiots below, Desmond blocked that out and reinforced his partition. He already understood the basics of it, he didn't need to live and breathe it as an ancestor.

No.

Just _no_, he wasn't going there, he wouldn't go there again. Haytham Kenway had nothing he needed. He was shit with the hidden blade, no wonder, he was an expert fencer, but so was Ezio and Altaïr, he was a strategist, as was Altaïr, he understood nobility and connections, as did Ezio, there was _no_ need for Desmond to visit Haytham, so Desmond locked that partition off, never to be accessed again.

Goddammit, what the _fuck_?

Desmond opened his eyes, looking up to the lacquered like rock above him shaded in the blue-green glow of Those Who Came Before. He sucked in a breath and rubbed at his forehead, the strain of closing off that ancestor making his head pound. _Goddamnit_.

"You all saw that, right?" he raggedly asked. God _damn_ it!

"Wow," Rebecca turned from her monitor, voice low in awe.

"Wow indeed," Shaun echoed quietly.

Good; he wasn't going insane again. They'd seen that bullshit as well.

Desmond sat up, took a moment to collect himself after that punch-in-the-gut revelation. William was behind him, arms crossed and looking annoyed. Desmond frowned, rubbing at his headache again. Knowing his father, especially Clay's memories of just how goddamned driven he was, Desmond knew they wouldn't have time to discuss the mind-bending revelation that had just been dumped on him.

God _damn_ it!

"The key must be the amulet Haytham took from London," Desmond said, rubbing his head again. The glow in the cave, it was sure as shit the key they needed.

"We might know what it looks like, but we're no closer to finding it," William stated. "Desmond, you need to keep going."

Anger flared brightly through Desmond and anger was so easy. He'd just been gut-punched by his own ancestry and locked it away to avoid thinking like a Templar again. And his father wanted him to just dive back in? And do what, watch Haytham honeymoon with Kaniehtí:io? No way, he'd seen enough of Ezio's exploits. And he wasn't going to subject himself to Templar logic. There was such a cold pragmatism, a harsh acceptance of humanity's idiocy, that Desmond would _not_ subject himself to again.

"Hey," Desmond growled, standing up and turning to glare at his father. "He was _your_ ancestor too. Why don't _you_ hop in the Animus?"

Why should Desmond be the only one to risk his sanity? Why didn't his _father_ risk something and maybe then he'd _understand_ what it was like to be human.

"Really," William sneered, arms still crossed and radiating disappointment. "That's your response. It's like dealing with a six-year-old." William narrowed his eyes. "What is wrong with you, Desmond?"

Something in Desmond snapped. He straightened his spine, set his jaw, and _glared_. "You wanna know what's wrong?" He stalked forward. Of all the heartless questions to ask... "I'm sick of being treated like I'm not even _here_!" he shouted. "Desmond, do this! Desmond, do that!" Like when he'd been a child. "Desmond, you'd better figure things out because the sun is going to turn us all to ash; and I know I was really _nice_ to you, but actually, I'm just another Templar plot-twist," because Lucy's betrayal still _hurt_ thank you, and Desmond ignored Shaun look away and Rebecca tear up, "and yes, I would like very much for you to be controlled by a magic space wizard so that you can murder me!"

The aching wound of Lucy's death throbbed. Just because he'd learned that Lucy was a Templar didn't mean he still didn't care. It didn't mean he wasn't quietly grieving in his own way. He _knew_ she hadn't wanted any harm to come to them, that she cared, but understanding and accepting were entirely different and both were so very difficult. Lucy had played him like a fiddle, but she hadn't realized that was what she was doing. But he had still been in Templar control, with Vidic and Lucy pulling the strings.

"So _there's_ your answer!" he shouted, letting his words echo in the cavern. "I'm sick of being a _goddamn_ pawn!"

A pawn for Templars, a pawn for Assassins. Was there truly any difference between the two? "I thought it might be different with you! I mean you're my _father_," Desmond glared coldly, his anger still building into a towering rage against everything his father had done. "But it turns out you're no better than the _fucking_ Templars!"

_Finally_ something in William snapped, and the next thing Desmond was aware of was once again being on his back looking up to the lacquered rock of the ceiling, his jaw aching.

"Don't you _ever_ equate me with those bastards again!" William yelled. "You hear me? _Everything_ I do, _everything_ I have done, has been for _you_!" William's face was twisted in anger and rage, and Desmond felt cold satisfaction that he'd finally gotten _something_ out of the robot that was his father. "Maybe I pushed a little too hard? Asked a little too much? Maybe you need to be coddled like a baby? But try and remember _exactly_ what's at stake here. You need to get it _together_, kid! We're running out of time!"

Oh, his father was going to play that, the fact that they were on a deadline and didn't have time for piddly little things like emotions?

Desmond took a breath, but Shaun was suddenly between them, nervousness dripping as he stepped into what was clearly a private confrontation.

"Riiight. That was unusual," he said lightly breaking through Desmond's anger. "Well, I'm just going to pretend that this never happened and get back to bringing everyone up to speed on where we stand."

Desmond took a deep breath and let it go, trying to get that boiling rage and resentment back under control. This is exactly what had happened when he'd been sixteen. He'd pushed and pushed and pushed to get any sort of feeling or emotion from his father, only to have his father knock him flat on his back, and that had been the last straw. Desmond had run away.

Now, he had a responsibility as an Assassin. He couldn't just run away because his father would never give him what he needed. He had work to do, and he had to work with his bastard of a father. So Desmond pulled that rage and frustration back, listening to Shaun.

"The news isn't good," Shaun explained. "It appears this Temple is powered by a collection of um... well, I guess they're batteries."

"Yeah," Desmond nodded. "Like the one I found when we got here."

"Precisely," Shaun let out the tiniest sigh of relief that the pissing contest was over. "But there aren't any more around here. We've looked. At least... not down here."

Desmond nodded. "Any idea where we can find replacements?"

"Not yet," Shaun said, walking back to his computer. "So, I intend to tiptoe into the Abstergo database." He gave a wry grin. "Now, if I can cross reference these particular devices with their database, I might get lucky."

"See what you can do," William ordered.

Rage boiled up in Desmond, but he pushed it back down.

Shaun scowled fiercely, just as displeased as Desmond. "Obviously," he said dryly. Then Shaun turned to Desmond. "Anyway," he said, more softly, "you can either take a look around here or we can head into the Animus."

"I'd say a good meal first," Desmond replied. "And a proper night's sleep." If for no other reason than to get rid of his headache.

William scoffed and stalked away.

"Jackass," Desmond muttered. He turned to Shaun and Rebecca. "So do we have a camping set up down here like we did at Monteriggioni, or are we still setting that up?"

Both Shaun and Rebecca glanced at each other.

"Er, Desmond, mate," Shaun hesitated, then sighed. "Today is November fifth."

Desmond blinked. "The fifth."

"Yep."

"The fifth."

"I think I hear an echo."

"The fifth. So I've been in the Animus for six days."

"Don't worry!" Rebecca stepped forward with false cheer. She pulled him to her laptop and started pulling up windows. "I've been staying on top of your vitals. See? Not even a blip. The Animus is keeping you in a resting state, which is why you're not feeling fatigue since you woke up, and there's been some extensive micro-movement in your muscles, so no atrophy issues either. The memories must be getting more vivid for you." She gave a bright, false smile. "Still, we'll be bringing you out for breaks just to stay on the safe side."

"Once a week or so, I take it?" Desmond said bitterly. "What, did my dear old dad want me in there even longer?"

Rebecca's false smile started to crack.

Desmond sighed. "Sorry," he muttered. She didn't deserve his bad attitude, especially since Rebecca was probably taking Lucy's death and betrayal as bad as Desmond was. They had been in high school together, and Desmond remembered waking up one night in Monteriggioni to see Rebecca and Lucy talking about all the stress. "So I've noticed some changes in the Animus..."

Rebecca smiled more sincerely, grateful for the change in topic, and started to expound on her expansions and working on the operating system from the ground up with some help from other Assassin cells.

"And speaking of your 'fixes' and 'updates' and improvements'," Shaun groused, "one would think you would have the decency to include a British English dictionary in the spellchecker. _Some_ of us prefer to use _proper_ language when writing. The database keeps replacing 's' with 'zed' and it's declared _war_ on the letter 'u' as well. Wrong, wrong, wrong!" Shaun crossed his arms in full acerbic sarcasm. "It's all rather ethnocentric if you ask me. Also quite against the principles of the Assassin Brotherhood, last I checked. And here I thought we were meant to be an all-inclusive bunch..."

Rebecca scowled at Shaun, but her lips were twitching against a smile. "You and I can have a long discussion about it later," she said lightly, and Shaun had the decency to gulp.

Desmond chuckled quietly, then turned back to Rebecca. "So what else have you been working on?"

"Lots of different stuff," she shrugged, heading to one of the boxes from the truck and digging through it. "Here. If you're going into the field for these batteries, we need a way to keep tabs on you and stay in touch. Hacking into local security systems won't cut it."

Desmond put the device I his ear. "Thanks," he said softly.

"For what?"

"I don't know... everything." Desmond refused to be like his father, he refused to not address the emotional needs of those around him. Rebecca was hurting and he needed to do something for her, even if it was as minuscule as expressing his gratitude. "You've sacrificed a lot for me. You and Shaun both," he said, glancing to the redheaded Brit. "You upgraded the Animus, helped train me, pulled me out of that coma... All that work in the database. Helped me solve Clay's puzzles." Desmond sighed, rubbing his temple again. "I know I haven't been the easiest person to work with with all my baggage. And I'm sorry for that. And I just want you to know that even if I'm shitty at showing it -" learned straight from his father, "I appreciate everything you've done."

Rebecca was looking particularly watery-eyed, but she just nodded, clearly not trusting her voice.

"Welcome back," Shaun said softly. "It's good to see you fully recovered. Can't imagine what it was like for you, trapped in the Animus... If you ever want to chat about it, you just let me know."

"Why Shaun," Desmond let light-hearted sarcasm drip from his voice, "one would almost think you cared."

Shaun scoffed dramatically. "Fine, fine! Be that way, you American lout. Just don't ask me for a tour of the facility."

"How about a tour of the facility?"

"You rat bastard."

Rebecca laughed.

"Seriously, though," Shaun dropped the light-hearted teasing, "Orders from William. No exploring without clearing it with him. We carry our headsets at all times." Shaun cleared his throat then did a fair impersonation of William. "We 'can't afford to lose anyone because of curiosity got the better of them. We're short-handed as it is'."

Desmond smirked. "Right. But I doubt a tour of where we cook, eat, sleep, and wash up is out of bounds."

"Quite so!"

Rebecca bowed out. "Still doing updates," she said. "Maybe I'll get around to adding an Australian English dictionary."

Most of the camp was far back from the massive gate, right at the entrance. Shaun and Rebecca were clearly still sharing a sleeping bag, and William had his own sleeping bag off to the side. There wasn't one set up for Desmond, but as far he was concerned, he'd steal his father's, so it wasn't an issue. Between the sleeping bags was the camping stove, and someone had clearly made a supply run during the time he was in the Animus. There was an organized cooking area, foods set aside in groups, pots and pans neatly stacked by spatulas and spoons. Desmond suddenly wanted to sit down and start cooking.

The wash area was actually outside the Temple, were there could be some privacy. But without running water or even a nearby reservoir, all the water was bottled. Shaun explained that the hike down to the nearest stream was too long and would likely be exposed to cell-phone surveillance.

"Damn, what I wouldn't give for a good shower."

"Don't go complaining to me about that," Shaun groused. "We have far more creepy things to worry about."

"What, is this place haunted?"

Shaun let out a humorless laugh. "Not Halloween any more, Desmond," he grunted. "But we do have a visitor down here. It's Juno."

Desmond stopped walking and stared. "What?" He thought _he_ was the only one to hear or see her...

"She's been appearing every now and then," Shaun explained, not looking at Desmond, but aside, his face etched with... something. "Sort of flits through the air, reminds us to guard you well, find the key, blah blah blah, and then - _poof_! - disappears." Shaun shook his head. "At first we thought it was just another holographic recording like what we saw under the Colosseum. But then your father called her some rather choice words and she _glared_ at him."

Desmond stared at Shaun incredulously.

"Honest! Swiveled those eyes in his direction and frowned." Shaun shuddered. "Creeped me out. I don't know if she's reaching out to us from the past, if some part of her is actually still conscious somewhere in this temple, if maybe she's inside the Apple, like some evil genie. Whatever it is... gives me the creeps."

"I don't blame you," Desmond replied. They re-entered the Temple, and both Shaun and Desmond stared at the flickering orange presence of Juno, as if called on command, hovering by the Animus. William was stalking over, and Desmond decided it was best to leave the two be. Rebecca was already retreating towards them.

"Safety in numbers," was all she said as they sat around the camp stove.

"Well, what do we have? I'll cook," Desmond offered.

"Sounds great!"

After rummaging around the food stocks and running through recipes in his head, Desmond realized that they didn't have as much variety as Monteriggioni, given that there wasn't a nearby town to get supplies from regularly. Still, Desmond made do.

"Desmond, about your father," Shaun said quietly, stirring the pot while Desmond sliced some cheese.

He stiffened, but let Shaun continue.

"William's not the most diplomatic man, I'll give you that," he said softly. "But he cares about you very much. In a quiet way." Shaun rubbed at his red hair. "When you were under, during that whole bit with Sixteen, he never left your side. Even slept in the same room when we put down for the night."

Desmond didn't say anything.

"Anyway, don't mean to be a busybody. Just didn't want you to stay sore with him. Not too sore, anyway." Shaun rushed through. "That man means well, even if he's got an odd way of showing it."

Letting out a long, low sigh, Desmond sat back. "I know," he said quietly. He remembered Clay and what he'd seen of William. He saw the kindness, the care, buried under determination and dedication. But that had never been what a toddler or child needed. William may care, but he didn't know how to be a father. And when a child needed a father, that would never make for a good mix.

Conversation faded after that, and Desmond finished cooking and dished out their small meal.

Rebecca, looking strained, glanced around. "You really think we'll finally get some answers down here?"

Shaun shrugged, sipping his precious tea.

"Maybe," Desmond shrugged as well. "Talking to the First Civ has always been a pain in the ass though."

"Imagine what it must be like for them," William sat down with them, and dished out his own part of the meal.

Desmond felt irritation flare, but he only grunted.

"What do you mean?" Rebecca asked, eying Desmond warily. He gave her a wan smile, promising to behave.

"They've been separated from us by tens of thousands of years," William explained. "A completely different language and culture... possessed of an intelligence vastly superior to our own. We're lucky they've communicated as much as they have."

Desmond remembered Lucy, her eyes tearing as she realized that Desmond was about to kill her.

"Lucky isn't the word I'd use," Desmond muttered. "I don't know why they had to make this all so complicated. I mean if they need something from me, they should just come out and say it." Instead of using him like he was their slave or pawn.

"I've been wondering that myself," William nodded, then took a sip of his coffee. "I get the sense from what Rebecca and Shaun told me and what I've seen of Juno, that Juno and Minerva didn't exactly see eye to eye. I'm studying everything I can get my hands on... But maybe you'll find something down here that can shed light on the mystery. What happened between them and why?"

Desmond didn't reply. They'd been civil this far and he didn't want to ruin it. Because sure, why not add _another_ thing on his long to-do list of saving the fucking world. But he kept civil by keeping quiet, and took another bite.

Rebecca hesitated, but turned back to Desmond. "What do you think is behind that door?"

"No idea."

"Do you think it can save us?"

Desmond shrugged. "The First Civ seemed to think so."

"What if it's dangerous?" she asked quietly.

"It's not like we have a lot of alternatives," Desmond set down his plate, suddenly not hungry.

"Well, we could... I don't know... warn President Obama?" Rebecca asked, strained.

"And what's he gonna do?" Desmond replied. "You've seen how the Tea Party blocks anything he tries to do, good or bad. And who's to say he's not in bed with Abstergo." Lucy flashed across his mind. "Seems everyone is these days."

"Well," Rebecca stared at her food, "what if we went to them? To Abstergo, I mean."

Desmond chuckled, glanced at his father, and shook his head. "Thought about it actually. Showing them what we've seen. Trying to work together..."

William frowned severely.

"They must know so much more than we do," Desmond trailed off. "But..."

"What is it?" Rebecca asked softly, putting a hand to his arm.

Desmond sighed. "It's possible that they know what's going to happen. That they _want_ it to happen. For all we know they're hiding out in bunkers, right now, waiting for the rest of the world to end. And then when its all over, out they come, ready to take control."

Rebecca shuddered. "God, I hope you're wrong."

"So do I, Rebecca. So do I..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee, no more creeper Haytham, huzzah!
> 
> So. This chapter. There's kind of a lot going on here and - as will happen a lot with these beginning chapters - a lot of information to get across.
> 
> First: if you ever have time, google a map of native american peoples before the Colonies. There were zillions of them, and though Connor's story is limited to the tribes of New England, we want to at least touch the fact there are more native americans than there are European countries. Some studies estimate that before it was colonized upwards of 42-47 million people lived in North America, and nowadays we're lucky to have about 5 million. That's something like 11-12% of what they once were. Colonists and Western Expansion and Manifest Destiny annihilated almost ninety percent of Native American culture just 'cause - like Braddock - we wanted more land. And worse, nobody talks about it. America's one original sin as a country is that we were deeply racist buggers. Anyway, there are lots of tribes mentioned here, and none of them will be touched again because Connor isn't in the area all that much.
> 
> Second: there are a of of names over on the British side. The subtle intro of George Washington of course, but also some other names that - as a history buff - will make you drool. All of these names pop up again as major players in the Revolutionary war. Much like the Civil War had soldiers from the Spanish-American War, the Revolutionary War had soldiers from the French and Indian War - same players, even same battles in some cases, different side and different causes. Some of these names you won't see again later, but others you will. Keep that in mind in future chapters :P
> 
> Third: Haytham and Ziio. Sigh. We've done the best that we can to make the relationship seem believable, that Haytham can and did worm his way deliberately into Ziio's heart - a Conquest - and while doing so garnered enough respect and admiration that he might, if you stand on your head and look cross-eyed, picture him having feelings for her. Haytham as a character is too guarded, too closed off from people around him, too concerned about protecting himself from being hurt to really allow himself to attach to anyone. He confuses us as much as he confuses Ratonhnhake:ton (more on that in MUCH later chapters), but we tried to make it work.
> 
> Meanwhile, the Braddock Expedition we held to history again. The battle itself is interesting, not just on the technical level of two sides surprising each other, but also because of how it shaped George Washington. He survived the fight with something like six bullet holes in his coat, was the sole American to bring order to the scattered British forces, had presence of mind to hide Braddock's body from the French, etc etc. It's also a dark echo of what he did the previous year at Fort Necessity - which he was so deeply embarrassed by he almost never spoke of, perhaps because he kind of STARTED the French and Indian War.
> 
> Oh, and Desmond snuck in, too. Hi Desmond! Not much to say on that score, there's nothing really added. More on him and his Daddy issues in later chapters.
> 
> Next chapter: Ratonhnhake:ton.


	4. Indelible Scars

The following morning, Desmond stretched and blearily made his way to coffee. Blessed coffee. He realized belatedly how much he missed American coffee; he'd been drinking Italian coffee in their tiny cups for months now, and having instant, over processed, coffee grounds in a giant 12 ounce semi-styrofoam cup was a breath of familiarity the moment the scent hit his nostrils. After making some breakfast, he went through his exercises, since those would be fleeting the longer he stayed in the Animus and micro-movements or not, he wanted to feel like he was staying in shape. His father was still asleep, no surprise having taken first watch again, so Desmond stretched his legs to the gate where Shaun and Rebecca were.

"Would you look at that," Shaun was muttering as Desmond walked up the steps.

"What is it?" Rebecca asked.

"If I had to guess, I would say that's a counter," he said, pointing to symbols that were steadily changing to different symbols. "And judging from the iconography, I think it's safe to say when that's emptied... the end begins."

"Damn," Rebecca whispered, her shoulders taught.

"Ain't that just peachy," Desmond added.

"Hello, Desmond," Shaun turned, greeting him. "How's things."

"Same old," he replied lightly. "Another day, another ancestor. Hopefully a better one than Haytham Kenway."

"Who'd have thought that you had a Templar in your family tree?" Shaun grinned.

Desmond shrugged, thinking back to how Haytham thought and his memories of his father, his sister Jenny. "I think he started out as an Assassin. They must have turned him..." Like they turned Lucy...

"Right you are, in fact!" Shaun smiled, already pulling out his tablet and books and sifting around. "I've been reviewing our archives and it appears that Haytham's father was indeed an Assassin. Which means he was likely one too. At least for a little while..."

"But not knowing," Rebecca nodded. "Not from what we saw with you."

Desmond's brows reached up to his hairline. Assassins had archives? He didn't think they'd had anything. "What else did you find?"

Shaun smiled. "That fellow from the opera, Reginald Birch – Grandmaster of the London chapter of Templars. He and Haytham's father – a man named Edward – well, they were longtime rivals."

"Gee, I wonder why," Desmond said sarcastically.

"Now it appears Birch got his hands on Haytham at a rather young age, working his wiles to convince Haytham to switch sides."

"Ten," Desmond replied. "Haytham was ten when he lost his father and sister. Something about a fire. He didn't dwell on it very much before burying it again. I think Birch raised him after that."

"Convenient," Shaun sat back. "Wonder how Birch arranged that. I'll see if I can't dig up more... I must say your family tree is impressive."

Desmond smiled.

"Well, I'll start booting up the Animus," Rebecca got up. "I assume it's back to work?"

"Yeah, there is a deadline and all," Desmond said, gesturing to the counter.

Rebecca headed back down the steps.

"Hon-" Shaun hesitated, lowering his voice. "Honest answer please, Desmond," the historian asked quietly. "Do you think we're getting out of this alive?" Shaun's eyes lingered on Rebecca with worry creasing his brows.

Desmond looked away. "I don't know... I mean, it's a pretty tall order," he answered. "If the First Civ couldn't save the world, how the hell are we supposed to swing it?"

"We have _some_ time," Shaun groused.

Desmond gave a reality check. "We have less than two months! They had decades and a lot more resources. And the worst part..." he glanced away, "is that we knew this was coming for, what, hundreds of years?"

Shaun reverted to professorial mode. "History repeats, it seems. The First Civ was so busy with their war against us, no one even noticed what was happening. We get advanced warning and then fall to fighting with the Templars... Lovely."

Desmond sighed, tired of gloom and doom. "Hopefully, whatever's behind that door will make a difference.

"And if it doesn't," Shaun said quietly, "well, at least we tried."

Desmond nodded.

Rebecca looked back at them and smiled, waving.

"Time to get to work."

* * *

Six year old Ratonhnhaké:ton squinted, trying to make sense of the squiggled lines on the page. It was a book of some kind, and he expected that it belonged to his father. It _must_ have. Only the white man could make words appear in such squiggles, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew his father was a white man. His mother never spoke of him, always changed the subject, but he did know a few things. His father's name was strange, stranger than the usual white man's name: Haytham. And his father had somehow hurt his mother. It was the only reason he could think of on why she didn't like speaking of him. Maybe if he could figure out these strange markings he could understand his father better, and then understand his mother better. What was the magic that made the squiggles words?

But the more he stared, the more the squiggles didn't make any sense.

He heard footsteps outside and Ratonhnhaké:ton panicked. He slammed the book shut, dropped it to the floor, and kicked it under the tied wood holding up herbs to be dried. He turned and looked as innocent as he could, shifting his weight away from the herbs and the book and more towards the fire.

His mother came in, tall and beautiful, one braid in front, the other having fallen behind her shoulder. "_Se'wánde_, _Ista_," he said as sweetly as he could manage.

"Hmmm," she narrowed her eyes. "And what are you up to?"

How did mothers always _know_? "Nothing!" he said quickly, "I uh... I was only... just..."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, come play with us!" came another voice. Kanen'tó:kon came running in, as naked as Ratonhnhaké:ton was, as expected for any child under thirteen years of age. "The others have gone hunting and we're bored!"

Escape!

Ratonhnhaké:ton quietly shuffled past his mother, running up to his best friend. He glanced back to his mother, hoping she saw nothing wrong.

She gave a quiet smile, her eyes gentle. "Go on," she gestured. "But do not venture past the valley."

"This way!" one of the girls cried, and soon a whole troop of children were heading out beyond the wooden staked walls, and out into the vast massive valley that was their home.

"Be home by sunset!" one of the mothers called out, watching the children dash through the longhouses.

"_Hén_, _Ista_!" the children all chorused.

They traipsed through the woods for almost an hour, laughing and giggling, picking up the colorful leaves that kept falling in the breezy autumn day. Several children split into their own groups; Ratonhnhaké:ton had three others with him: his best friend Kanen'tó:kon, the twins Teiowí:sonte and Kahionhaténion, both five, and a tiny four-year-old girl named Aarushi. Kanen'tó:kon was the oldest, beating out Ratonhnhaké:ton by three months; the tallest and heaviest, he was chiefly in charge of getting the children out of the walls of Kanatahséton. The twins unanimously were responsible for causing trouble, and Ratonhnhaké:ton often had the arduous task of getting everyone _out_ of trouble. Their mothers all agreed, Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to have the right qualities to be a _Roiiá:ner_; a chief for the Haudenosaunee Grand Council. The children all agreed that the _Oiá:ner_ were biased, since Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother was an _Oiá:ner_, _they_ thought that Kanen'tó:kon was the better choice.

Soon they were far from the village, and Aarushi started to get scared.

"Maybe we should go back..." said the four-year-old.

"_Hén, _they say there are wolves out here as large as bears!" Kahionhaténion whispered, perfectly willing to scare her.

"And strange men who shoot fire from their hands!" Teiowí:sonte added, grinning at his twin and sharing a nod.

"I hear they live in stone villages," said Kahionhaténion.

"Filled with victims taken from these woods!" Teiowí:sonte said, reaching out and ghosting his hands over Aarushi's back, making her shriek.

"Don't listen to them," Ratonhnhaké:ton admonished. Those were the _legends_ of what a white man was like, _myths_ to scare children like them. The white man couldn't all be bad; after all, his father was white.

"I had a dream," the four-year-old girl said, trying to change the topic, "A bad dream. Can we act it out later to remove it? I don't want the bad dream to come true on a really important day."

"Of course."

The girl sighed in relief.

"Almost there," Kanen'tó:kon said.

A tall outcrop of stone towered over them, horizontal gouges seeming like shelves buried in leaves and pine needles. They all gathered in the shade. "What will we play?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

"Hide and seek?" Kanen'tó:kon suggested. The others were quick to agree, it was a challenge and test of skill that _everyone_ wanted to be best at. Ratonhnhaké:ton's best friend quickly scoured the ground. He reached down and picked up a bunch of different sized sticks. "Draw."

Each of them picked a stick, and Ratonhnhaké:ton grimaced as he got the short stick.

Kanen'tó:kon laughed. "You're it! Come on, let's hide!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, but he crouched down, put his pale hands on his eyes, and started to count. "One, two, three, four..." His sharp ears picked up all the footsteps, all heading uphill from him. But he kept counting steadily.

"One hundred!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the ground, seeing the footprints and the disturbed leaves, which were easy to follow. The easiest to find was Kanen'tó:kon, who's steps were heavier than the others given his more chubby nature.

"You're too good at this..." Ratonhnhaké:ton best friend mumbled. Joining him the six-year old went back to start and followed the next set of footprints.

Following the trails, it didn't take long to start finding all the other children.

"There you are!"

"Awwww..."

"How did you know?" the four-year-old Aarushi whined. Then a new thought entered her young head, and she immediately changed topic. "Can we go fishing later? We should look for shells when we're done!" Then came a pout and another change in topic. "I'm hungry."

The twins just laughed. "She is such a baby!" Teiowí:sonte said. "_We_ can focus much better, don't you think, Kahionhaténion?"

"Huh?" his brother asked. "What did you say?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon both laughed. Soon they came back to the outcropped rock to draw sticks again. Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled as his best friend got the short stick this time. Perfect! He had just the hiding spot! The six-year-old ran up the hill's steep slope, through the maple and oak before spotting the pine boughs he had spied earlier. He lifted one of the dead branches, hoping to sneak in when a fox barked and darted out, scared of the sudden intrusion. Ratonhnhaké:ton gasped, scared himself, and decided not to bother the fox's hiding place. He crouched behind the boughs instead of inside them, hoping the animal would return when she saw her home was unbothered. Between the boughs and the massive trunk he was perfectly hidden, and he mentally dared Kanen'tó:kon to find him now.

He closed his eyes and listened, trying to see if he could hear Kanen'tó:kon counting, but his voice was nowhere to be heard, meaning he was far away indeed. Good! His best friend needed to move around as much as possible. Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered... if he was silent enough... could he steal Kanen'tó:kon's feathers right from his scalp? The thought made him smile, and he waited to be found. For some time he crouched down, imagining his victory over his best friend, wondering if he could do the same to the younger twins as well; they often needed to be put in their place for the trouble they caused. He was just beginning to taste the victory when he was jerked out of his thoughts by a firm, painful grip on his arm that yanked him from his spot. Who saw him? He was so well hidden!

Skittering away from the pine boughs and rolling, he looked up to see a man paler than even himself; the fabled white man – dressed in layers and layers of woven cloth and holding a fierce looking stick of wood and metal. The barrel of the metal was aimed directly at Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he remembered with dread the stories the twins had recited: shooting fire from hands and stone villages made of bodies. Could this construction do exactly that? Shoot fire? This close, what would it do to him?

The white man said something, words that Ratonhnhaké:ton only vaguely recognized. He tried to remember the words, the sounds his _ista_ had taught him and what to say, but the sight of the metal and wood stick was too terrifying.

Panic filled him, and he scrambled to his feet to run away. He needed distance, he needed to think about the language his mother taught him. What was the phrase he was supposed to say? What was he supposed to say? Think, Ratonhnhaké:ton, _think!_ He plowed full speed away from the stick, away from the fear, when he saw too late other men behind a tree, and one slid his foot out, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tripped, his mind not following the actions fast enough to compensate. The strong incline of the hill sent him rolling down through the dead leaves and ferns until he smacked his head on the flat of the massive stone rocks that littered the valley. The impact sent a wave of pain through him but it also broke through the panic. Maybe if he played dead? Maybe if he pretended to be a possum they would lose interest and move on; then he could run to his _ista_ and tell her what happened. She would know what do to. She had dealt with the white man many times before his birth, she knew their language and she knew their magic of making squiggles make sense, and she was the strongest woman in the world. He held his breath, trying to keep still as he pretended, hoping the pounding of his heart was not as loud as he thought it was.

He heard footsteps, loud and heavy, the sounds of men who did not stalk the woods, men who did not respect the valley or the people in it. One, two, three – no, four – sets of feet. He ran out of air and exhaled, desperately trying to be quiet, trying to be dead. The feet were moving towards him; his plan had failed, they knew he was alive... or worse, they thought him dead and wanted to use his body to make another stone village. The thought terrified him. They should not have gone so far from the village; what of Kanen'tó:kon, the twins, little Aarushi? Where were they? Or were they dead? Whisked away to make a stone village?

Ista... where was Ista?

_What was he supposed to do_?

Another rough hand spun him around, and he looked up to see the man who had tripped him. Dark hair, round forehead, hair under his nose – did it tickle? - and blue eyes so intent in staring at him that Ratonhnhaké:ton was motionless under their gaze. The man with the stick stood off to the side, and another man, taller and thinner, held another such stick and looked bored. Another man with dark hair, they all looked alike, but the fourth had a blanket with Haudenosaunee patterns on his shoulder. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to catch his eyes, tried to see if that tiny bit of familiarity would save him. The blue-eyed man however, was still glaring at him, face intent, gaze hard.

"_You look... familiar_." The words were spoken slowly, with a curious tone, and it gave Ratonhnhaké:ton time to translate the words. The next sentence was spoken much faster however, and it whistled over his head. The two death sticks were still being waved around, by the bored man and the heavy man, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had _no idea what to do_. He looked to the white man who wore the Haudenosaunee blanket, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. The man spat on the ground and, failing to see any other sign and uncertain what it meant in the white man's culture, Ratonhnhaké:ton took a deep breath and spat up at the man glaring down at him.

For a moment, everything froze; and Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't sure what that meant. The glaring blue eyes finally broke their gaze, a shockingly pale hand reaching up to where the spittle had landed. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked around, trying to look for a reaction, breath coming out in quick bursts as he saw the man in the blanket close his eyes and sigh, disappointed. _Iá, iá, iá iá iá iá iá iá iá iá-_

"_That wasn't very nice,_" the blue-eyed white man with hair under his nose said, the words slow and deliberate again, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear anger in the man's voice, and he knew he was dead. His arm was grabbed, and he began to drag across the ground, the leaves crunching up against his bare skin and his mind finally, _finally_, remembered a phrase from the white man.

"_Let me go_!" he shouted, hoping he said it right. His feet struggled up and down, trying to stop his inevitable death, trying to make all of this _stop and go away._

The blue-eyed man and the bored one talked for a bit, laughing over something and only causing terror in Ratonhnhaké:ton. He threw his gaze once more at his one hope, the man with the Haudenosaunee blanket, but his eyes only held sadness. The blue-eyed man hauled Ratonhnhaké:ton to his feet and slammed the six-year-old against the tree, the rough bark scraping at his back and cutting into him. The blue-eyed man said something, too fast for Ratonhnhaké:ton to understand, and he threw his eyes to the man with the blanket once again, having nowhere else to look.

"He says we have questions for your elders," the man said in Ratonhnhaké:ton's own tongue. "He says to tell us where your village is and you can go. Best do as he asks, child," he added, voice low and resigned.

The village? Kanatahséton? These white men wanted to go to his _home_, with their metal and wood sticks? And do _what_? What would Ista do? What would she say? Would she give up their home to save her own life? What would these men do there? The blanket man spoke of questions? Who would treat children like this if they only asked questions? Who would aim those terrifying sticks for only questions? Ratonhnhaké:ton froze, breathing heavily, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do what was necessary.

The evil man holding him lost his patience. Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if this was a servant of Hahgwehdaetgah, Flint, the evil twin grandson of the sky goddess Iottsitíson. The blue eyes spoke of destruction, death, night, everything that Flint represented. Which of the spawn of the evil twin was he? Atenenyarhu? The evil man lost his patience, he placed his powerful hands on Ratonhnhaké:ton's neck and began to squeeze. The six-year-old's eyes widened and he instinctively tried to gasp for air. Air! _Air! He needed air!_

The servant of Flint spoke again, his voice rolling and full of arrogance and hatred. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand the words, but all the same he knew what the Atenenyarhu, the Stone Coat, was saying. This man would eat him and think nothing of it. His vitriol oozed from his mouth, and it soon became all that Ratonhnhaké:ton could perceive as his vision darkened and his hearing dimmed, all he could recognize was the foul stench coming from the Atenenyarhu's mouth, the hatred of it.

And then, all at once, he fell.

Air rushed into his lungs at such speed that he could not take it, and the child coughed and gulped at the precious commodity entered into his tiny frame. The Atenenyarhu was speaking again, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was too busy regaining his senses. The man with the blanket and also had hair under his nose, he knelt down and spoke in Ratonhnhaké:ton's tongue.

"He says he's sparing you, that you may carry word to your people. Let them know the sooner we are given what we seek, the sooner you can return to your lives."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, knowing now that the blanket man would not help him. He looked instead to the Stone Coat, the servant of Flint. He struggled to think through the fog of his mind, struggled to work his mouth around the sounds.

"_What_," he gasped in the foreign tongue, "_is your... name_?"

The Stone Coat chuckled, somehow amused by the question. "Charles Lee," he said slowly, a sneer on his mouth. "_Why do you ask_?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton coughed, still gasping for air, and worked to find the right words. "_So I can... find you._"

The Stone Coat, Charles Lee, smiled, blithe, humoring, condescending. "_I look forward to it_," he said, contempt in his voice. He straightened, glanced at the bored man and turned his back. The bored man lifted his death stick and struck Ratonhnhaké:ton on the head, and the boy knew no more.

* * *

Cold.

Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered, and pain erupted in his head.

The late fall air bit into his skin and he curled into himself, a hand going up to his forehead and touching it. He felt blood and the thick sensitivity of a bruise. What had hit him? Where was Ista? Why was he in the valley? A moan escaped his throat, and he eventually struggled into a sitting position. Looking around hurt, his eyes watered as they tried to take in the details around him. He was up near the valley wall, near some pine boughs and a tree. Hide and seek... they had been playing. Had they forgotten to search for him? It hurt too much to think, and he bent over into a ball, trying to get the waves of pain subside.

Slowly, eventually, he was able to get up to his feet, and he pressed his hands to his head. A warm breeze ghosted over him, and that was surprising for the late autumn air. He glanced up to the sky, squinting up to see darkness and a waxing gibbous. Night? Why was it night? Didn't the village go out and look for him if Kanen'tó:kon and the others couldn't find him? Another moan vibrated in his throat and he slowly started putting one bare foot in front of the other, the hard ground chilled against his toes and the breeze still warm.

He found the path leading to the village finally, and began the descent, still holding his head. Everything was spinning, blurry and hard to focus. Tears rolled down his eyes at the pain, and he tried to work his way through it. He needed to find _Ista_, his _ista_ could make the pain go away, and she could explain what it was he was missing. Did he have a dream about Stone Coats? That was a scary thought, and he couldn't imagine how to erase that dream with his friends.

His lungs burned, and there was a scent on the wind that Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't immediately recognize, even though he knew he should. All he could really understand, however, was the pain in his head, and slowly it began to fade to a throbbing sensation. Looking around, he saw he could focus better, and he dared to pull his bloody hands away from his forehead. He made his way down to the river, slowly tracing the path that he knew so well, down the slope to the brightness of the village.

Wait. Brightness.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, wide-eyed, as he realized the scent on the air: smoke.

Fire.

The village was on fire.

Kanatahséton was on fire.

"_Iááááááááááá!_" he shouted, unable to comprehend the horror.

Any thought to his own pain vanished, and he stumbled his way down the path, tripping over a terrified animal that ran across his path. Deer were screaming off in the distance, though that paled in comparison to the much closer and more intimate screams of his village. Ratonhnhaké:ton ran past the narrow entrance and all he saw after that was red. The crops to his left were burning, and people were gathering to his right. Two of the longhouses were aflame, and the smoke was so thick he couldn't even see the river. He ran to the group; Kanen'tó:kon and the twins were there, crying with their mothers.

Ista?

_Ista!_

"Ista!" he called out, coughing through the smoke and running up to his best friend. "Where is my _ista_?" he shouted, the sounds of the flames loud in his ears.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton! You're alive!" his best friend cried out. "We could not find you, we thought the white men had killed you; they killed the Rottiá:ner! Fire sticks are _real_!"

"But where is Ista?" Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted. "Where is she?" He looked up to Kanen'tó:kon's father, but he shook his head; he had no idea.

Unable to accept that answer, Ratonhnhaké:ton ran from the group, ignoring their cries for his return, and pushed deeper into the village. He saw a woman of the wolf clan collapse from the smoke as her brother ran to her. One of the longhouses was not yet on fire, and he darted inside, trying to see if anyone was inside through the smoke. "_Ista!_" he cried out, trying to find her. The crackle of the fire was so loud it seemed to turn into a roar, making hearing difficult. Seeing was also difficult, and he rammed into a fallen series of beams, knocking what little air he had out of his lungs. Coughing for several moments, he crawled onto his belly and shoved himself underneath, rolling away and looking up in time to see a canoe hanging above him sag under the burning beams supporting it and begin to fall. He rolled to his left, the boat missing him by mere inches, and he dashed out the far side of the longhouse, scared and crying and trying to find his beloved mother. She was the strongest person in the world, she would know what to do!

Outside the smoke had thickened, determined to choke him as the Stone Coat Charles Lee done, and he did not know what to do. _What was he supposed to do_? He was so scared...

"_Ista!_" he shouted, a sob shuddering through his small frame. "_Ista! Where are you?_"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

The voice instantaneously lifted his spirits, his head jolting up before he realized it had even drooped. All at once every sense was alive, clarity filling his mind as he heard that one beautiful voice. Ista! _Ista!_ She was in their longhouse, the one they shared with the rest of the Turtle Clan. She was there! She would know what to do!

Renewed energy surged through his tiny body, and he staggered to the longhouse. The main gate had been closed, and Ratonhnhaké:ton pounded on the wood, trying to climb it but unable to get a handhold. "_Ista!_" he shouted. "I'm here! I'm coming!"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton..." his mother started to say, but Ratonhnhaké:ton moved to his right, around the wall of flames, trying to find someone. "Help us!" he shouted, looking for someone, _anyone_. "My _ista_ is still inside! I need help!"

A horrible cracking sound, followed by a thunderous snap, erupted behind him, and instinct more than understanding had him rolling forward. He turned and saw the entire side of the longhouse had crumbled, weakened by the fire. There was no time left...! Coughing, hoping someone had heard him, he staggered inside, moving to his place in the longhouse, where he and his mother slept. "Ista!" he called, and he saw movement through the smoke, saw that wonderful profile of his mother. "I am here, I am here!" he called. She was trapped, it seemed, under the fallen beams and canoe that had almost hurt Ratonhnhaké:ton. He tried to climb over it, but the wood was too hot for his bare skin. He tried to crawl under it but there was no place large enough for him to squeeze in. He would have to lift it. All he had to do was just _get_ to her, then everything would be fine. "It is going to be fine," he said, pulling at one log and managing to roll it aside. "It's going to be fine," he said again, looking at his mother's silhouette in the smoke. "Once I get there everything will be _fine!_"

Another log, easily twice his size, managed to give and Ratonhnhaké:ton was able to pull it back enough to step beyond it. He could see more clearly now. Her face was covered in blood, and her arm was clutched to her chest, bone sticking out at an awkward angle. She was hurt...! She had never been hurt before, she was the invincible Clan Mother who always knew what to do; she should never _get_ hurt! What did this mean? _What was he supposed to do?_

He got a grip on another log.

"No, my son," his mother said. "You must leave. Now."

"_Iá_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, shaking his head and struggling to get the massive log to move. "Not without you."

His mother also shook her head, leaning over the wood, reaching out with her good arm and touching his hand. He looked up and their eyes met. "It's too late for that," she said, her voice as calm as it ever was, always so certain of what she was saying. She took a deep, shaky breath. "You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must be brave."

Was she...? Was she...?

_Iá. Iá. _Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head violently, not wanting to listen. "Stop it. _Stop it!_" he shouted, smoke burning his lungs. He pulled harder. Please. _Please...!_

But Ista kept talking, her voice soothing, accepting, everything that – for the first time in his life – he didn't want to hear. "You will think yourself alone," she said, eyes watery but determined, "but know that I will be at your side. Always and forever." She smiled, soft and gentle even as the fire caused the entire longhouse to shudder under its anger. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," she started to say.

But arms were around him again, lifting him up, hoisting him away from his mother like he was little more than a feather. _Iá, IÁ, NOT LIKE THIS!_

"_Iá_!" he shouted, reaching for the receding sight of his whole world. "_Stop! Let me go! Let me save her!_"

And even over his shouts, even over the sound of the collapsing longhouse, his eyes locked on the one person in his life that mattered more than anything, he saw through the blood, he saw her lips move, and he heard her soft, gentle voice.

"I love you..."

"_ISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!_"

And, at the tender age of six, Ratonhnhaké:ton's world collapsed in on itself, and the most beaut_iful piece of himself died._

* * *

"_Fuck_," Desmond cursed, gasping and relieved to be in the white loading room of the Animus. He put a hand to his face, sliding into a cross-legged sitting position. "_Fuck,_" he cursed again. "Jesus _Christ_." He wiped his face, trying to scrub away the tears.

"Rebecca," he said, voice shaky. "I already lived through the immediate aftermath of Ezio losing his family; please don't make me live that kid's."

"_I understand, Desmond,_" Rebecca said. "_William's asleep right now, I can skip ahead without much fanfare._"

"... Thanks," he said softly. "Just... give me a minute."

"_Take all the time you need. It's three in the morning here._"

Desmond laid flat on his back, closing his eyes, assimilating that terrible memory. God, Ezio had been fucked up when this happened to him and he was just seventeen. What would happen to this kid? Radon... Ratonhn... he wasn't used to the language yet, and he felt deep into his mind at the partition Clay had taught him to create, touching it for the information he needed. Ratonhnhaké:ton. A spirit that has been scratched. Son of Kaniehtí:io and Haytham Kenway.

Bastard. Fucking _bastard_. Haytham sent his troop of Templars to level Kaniehtí:io's home, and for _what?_ To get more information on the Grand Temple? Desmond didn't think the man was that far gone. Templar or not, the prick at least believed in no unnecessary deaths, at least he wanted to be a good shepherd. This was fucked up, fucked up beyond belief, and Desmond could admit to himself that he dreaded any confrontation Ratonhnhaké:ton had with the old prick.

But, then, that was where this all lead; this was how he learned where the key Juno was so anxious about was hidden. This was the inevitable conclusion.

Desmond took a deep breath, accepting it, compartmentalizing it, and at last, he opened his eyes. "Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

And he sank ba_ck into the past..._

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton sat on the base of a fallen tree trunk, worn smooth over the years since its fall. Fourteen years old, he was perfectly still, as solid as a mountain, looking out over the valley and brightly colored trees. The deerskin leggings were already worn after a year of use, and the deerskin shirt had been his own kill from his first hunt. Harvest season was in full swing, the three sisters had been generous this year in their yield, and the entire village was thankful. There would be a dance tonight, celebrating their good fortune. The community would thank each other for their hard work share stories of the year, laugh and feast and talk, and nobody would mention the fire and the lives lost that day.

He glanced up to the trees, wanting to climb them, to get high above the ground, high were it might almost be safe.

Except nowhere was safe. He had learned that when he was six years old. Nothing had been the same after the fire. When the _atenenyarhu_, the Stone Coat named Charles Lee had come, the creation of the evil twin Flint was nothing like Ratonhnhaké:ton had expected. _Atenenyarhu_ were rock giants, twice as tall as humans and covered in rock hard scales. Impervious to normal weapons, they were cannibal monsters that ate humans. They brought winter and ice to freeze the ground and make the world more like them. Charles Lee looked nothing like an _atenenyarhu_, but Ratonhnhaké:ton had come to the conclusion that he was a Stone Coat never the less, for he had done all the things the legends spoke of. He came in late fall and brought the winter with him, he froze Ratonhnhaké:ton with his blue eyes – the color of icy stone – and his fire stick, called a _musket_ in the white language, had made him invulnerable to all the men and women of the village. And, the most terrible similarity of all, he ate people.

Charles Lee had eaten his mother, little Aarushi, several of the Rottiá:ner chiefs, and a half dozen others. Their deaths had fed his evil nature, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not understand how the village had simply _moved on_ from the tragedy. All of their vulnerabilities had been laid bare, the Kanien'kehá:ka were poorly equipped for the creatures of Hahgwehdaetgah, the creatures of the evil twin Flint.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was anxious. Ever since the fire he felt uncertainty, nervous energy as he waited for the next assault from the Stone Coats, the next atrocity that would come. Nobody was safe, and he could not understand why everyone would act as if they were. He tried to talk to others, Oiá:ner who had taken him in after the fire had listened the most; she alone seemed to understand his fear, and gave him tools to try and compartmentalize it, understand it, use it for greater things. Stillness, she said, was his greatest ally. To take the momentous energy that boiled inside him and hold it perfectly still was a trial; a trial of patience, of strength, and of stamina. If he could learn stillness, he could master the pain that ached in his chest when he began to worry. If he could learn stillness, he could master his mind and he could see what it is he needed to do.

He had still to master these things; he had still to understand how being still could make him know how to protect Kanatahséton, but she was wise and the entire village looked to her, and so did he.

Though he was impatient to learn the secret of stillness, he _could_ understand, in a practical sense, how it could help him. At fourteen he was one of Kanatahséton's greatest hunters because his stillness brought silence, and many regaled him as a genius of the hunt.

He was no genius, Ratonhnhaké:ton knew. Only a boy who listened to those who knew better.

Speaking of which, the sun had been up for a very long time; where...?

"Peace!" Kanen'tó:kon said, darting up.

Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips. "You're late," he said simply.

His best friend smiled, self-effacing and unapologetic. "Sorry. You're not still mad at me, are you?" His bow was slung along his back along with his quiver. Three turkey feathers poked out from his hair, and his deerskin shirt was heavily detailed, patterns woven into the shoulders and fringes dangling along the line of his collarbone. Ratonhnhaké:ton saw little use in such decoration, he was practical down to his bones, wanting to look as plain and invisible as possible so the Stone Coats would not see him again. Anxiety of the thought shivered over him and he took a deep breath, remembering stillness.

"Come," he said instead. "We have work to do. Oiá:ner has asked us to gather materials for tonight. We'll start with the feathers. We can scout the area for bird nests from up there." He pointed up along the trunk he had just been sitting by, having already traced a path to a massive tree that easily extended sixty or eighty feet in the air. From there they could spy likely spots for nests to gather feathers for the dance. Kanen'tó:kon, heavy set and always slightly lazy, looked up the route and gulped audibly, his slight double chin making the motion more visible. His eyebrows rose into his high forehead and he gave Ratonhnhaké:ton a worried glance.

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head slightly, and calmly darted up to the flat trunk and up the fallen neck of the oak, the circumference of the tree comfortably thick and its dead branches under it easily supporting its weight. "See?" he said. "Not so bad." From there he hopped down to the abbreviated limb of a pine, the branch thinner and giving under his weight, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was nimble and only stayed on the branch for a fraction of a breath before hopping up to a split in the pine, the tree having chosen to grow in two directions. A glance behind showed his heavy-set friend following at a much more tepid, tenuous pace. That was fine, and Ratonhnhaké:ton took a breath and skittered up to the next branching of the pine, his hands hooking around old knots and long dead twigs. The bark was rough, and the pine sap saturated his hands, making them sticky. That only helped him climb and soon he was standing on another bisection of the tree.

"There's nothing to hang on to," his friend said from below.

"_Hén_ there is," he replied, "Look for places where the bark knots."

It took ten minutes, but soon Kanen'tó:kon was as high as he was.

"Better?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

"... It is beautiful," Kanen'tó:kon said, eyes soaking up the view. His turkey feathers blew in the wind, and he leaned against a branch, awe-struck at the view.

Ratonhnhaké:ton agreed. He could see the entire valley through the boughs of pine, saw all the valleys cut from the river and the trees reaching up towards the Sky Goddess Iottsitíson. Atahensic, the Earth Mother, had created a beautiful world for the Haudenosaunee to live; it was plentiful of game and fish, the three sisters fed them well, nothing went to waste. Indeed, it was everything a person could ask for. And yet... And yet...

"But for how long?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "Come spring two dozen men will have moved here. By fall there will be two dozen more. They will hunt in these forests. They will settle on this land. In less than a year there will be a hundred of them. In time they will swallow us whole." The white people were dangerous, they hid the evils of the world, the dark creations of the evil twin Hahgwehdaetgah. A hundred years ago, they bothered other tribes, the Mahican and the Pennacook, the Pocumtuk and Munsee and Unami. Before that the Wappinger, the Mohegan and the Pequot, the Wampangag and Narraganset and Massachuset. Bloody wars came from the nations that saw the danger, but many simply did not realize the trap. They allowed the white men to come and use the land, they traded away all of their traditional territory because the white man saw the land as something to be _owned_.

Warraghiyagey said that the difference in culture was staggering, and that agents like him tried to bridge the gap, that white men and native peoples could live in harmony so long as intermediaries existed, so long as the Covenant Chain existed. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not trust the man, did not trust someone who interpreted his name to mean He Who Does Great Things. There was an arrogance there, it made him anxious as everything about the white man did. For all of Warraghiyagey's words, still they crept into the valley. They were as snakes, and the _ohdow_ who lived underground to keep such creatures under control could not contain them. No, the extinction of his people was nigh, perhaps even at hand, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not understand why the others didn't see it.

Kanen'tó:kon exemplified his thoughts by saying: "They are still far away."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was frustrated. "_Hén_. But they are _closer_ than they were. We need to do something. If we do not act, if we do not fight, it will happen again... The _atenenyarhu_ will come and eat us with fire as they did before..." He had to stop it. He had to protect his people, or he would never feel safe again. Anxiety set his nerves on edge, his toes curled in his moccasins, and he had long ago lost all thought of the errands he was supposed to run.

Kanen'tó:kon knew his moods well, and like any best friend he knew when to push and when to retreat. "Enough of that," he said gently, closing the topic. "I thought you were teaching me how to climb."

Ratonhnhaké:ton closed his eyes, and reached for stillness. "Fine," he said, opening his eyes and focusing on what he had been tasked to do. His eyes caught an old giant, leaning out over a cliff and with a nest resting on it. "There," he said, pointing. "An eagle's nest. The feathers will be finer than the others."

He friend audibly gulped at the height, suddenly acutely aware of how much he weighed and what he could and could not do. He offered an excuse. "But we are not supposed to leave the valley..."

"No one needs to know, do they?" Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, offering a smile he did not feel, trying to reassure Kanen'tó:kon that all was well even when it was not. "Let's see if we can make it there without touching the ground."

"This is a bad idea..."

"Do as I do," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and with abandon he leapt from his perch down to a dead branch he had spied earlier, waiting for the swing to absorb the energy before he flew around the trunk and to another branch, hopping to a second tree and up and down and up again, his feet barely touching the wood, the pine and maple sap giving his hands better grip, his eyes darting left right and center to find his next handhold, his next leap, his next tree. There was a freedom in this, his mind was completely focused on the run, and for a brief time his anxiety left him, and he was able to feel calm.

He made it to the river, crouched on a dead stub of a white oak, taking a moment to breathe and figure out where to go next. Ratonhnhaké:ton had challenged himself to not touch the ground, and he needed to figure out how to cross the river. There was a branch stemming the distance, and a massive bolder placed by the _Gahonga_ Stone Rollers... Yes, he had a route. Leaping off the branch he had been resting on, he extended himself fully and just barely made his sticky hands wrap around a pine branch, shaking cones out from the boughs and to the forest floor twenty feet below. He swung from one branch to another, working his arms to their fullest before landing on a tree growing at an angle. One hop and he was one a stone outcropping. His body felt positive energy, and he looked behind him to see Kanen'tó:kon only just barely visible.

"You are too fast!" he admonished. "You were just humoring me earlier! Ah, I need a moment!" He finally caught up and panted, a hand rubbing his thick middle as he gulped for air and tried to calm his heart.

Calm, energized, unwilling to stop, Ratonhnhaké:ton curled his toes and hopped onto the log and continued their trek. The valley wall was upon them now, and already his mind was darting ahead, planning to get up high again; there was a crevice perhaps fifty feet up that would be perfect...

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

Turning, he saw Kanen'tó:kon had lost his balance and falling into the freezing river. This always happened; Kanen'tó:kon did not have the invisible drive that Ratonhnhaké:ton did, and his tepid, lazy nature got him in trouble. Ratonhnhaké:ton, however, would be a poor friend indeed if he did not accept these faults in his friend's character, just as Kanen'tó:kon accepted his seemingly unconquerable anxiety. Tiptoeing back over the log, Ratonhnhaké:ton took a moment to place his feet for balance and reached down, grabbing Kanen'tó:kon's hand and lifting him out of the water. He shivered, reaching up and checking the turkey feathers in his hair, and took a shaky breathe.

"_Niá:wen_," he said gratefully.

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, the pair shared a real smile, and they moved on. Ratonhnhaké:ton now remembered his pace, pointing out knots and crevices in trees to grip and letting his friend take an easier route. They stopped in the branches of another tree, Ratonhnhaké:ton perfectly placed to start his climb up the cliff wall. "Now we climb," he said, anticipation starting to fill him.

Kanen'tó:kon shook his head. "This is too much," he said.

"How do you hope to improve if you don't push yourself?"

"But what will happen if I fall and die?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. His teeth were in his goal now, and he was loath to drop it now that he was so close. "There should be some other nests nearby. Search those," he said. "I'm going up."

Kanen'tó:kon smiled, shaking his head helplessly at his friend's determination, and without a word he shimmied his way down to a stone outcropping, happy with the easier task Ratonhnhaké:ton had given him. Ratonhnhaké:ton, by contrast, immediately leapt out over the drop, hands grabbing onto the moss covered rock and hoisting himself up onto the desired shelf.

The beginning of the climb was easy, just a mass of shelves, rock piled on top of one another that he hopped and hoisted and lifted himself onto, easily gaining twice the height he had started in the span of half an hour; after that was the crevice he had spied, and progress slowed rapidly as he made certain of his hands and feet. It was not long before he was sweating in the chill air, the moisture wearing away the sap clinging to his skin and making him doubly careful of where he placed himself. Still, by the end of the hour he was up on the shelf that the tree had fallen, and he looked up. The base of the giant was even higher up, and for a moment he was tempted to find his way up there, to see the world from so close to the sky. Oiá:ner's list still persisted in his mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint her. Instead he crawled out on the remains of the tree. He was so high up he felt breathless, and he kept his legs fully encircled around the limb as he shimmied forward, looking out to the valley and the great lake; marveling once again at the gifts the spirits had given them.

The eagle nest was massive, easily six feet wide. This late in the year all the children had left the nest leaving only the fine down of feathers mixed with bits of eggshell and the other sundry elements that make up an eagle nest. The feathers were massive, to be expected from such large birds, and Ratonhnhaké:ton easily grabbed four or five, each larger than his hand spanning from fingertip to well past his wrist. One almost went to his elbow, and he very carefully tucked them away into his hunting pack, appreciating the excellent find.

That was when he was spotted.

There was a pitched shriek above his head, and he looked up to see that the owner of the nest was swooping down, claws extended.

Startled, Ratonhnhaké:ton lost his balance and swung to one side, his legs scraping the circumference of the log and suddenly hanging upside down, his arms flailing over his head to the deadly drop below. "I understand," he said quickly, "I will leave now!"

The eagle caught a draft and lifted back into the sky, and Ratonhnhaké:ton used the reprieve to get his hands secured and began back sliding the way he had come, shimmying for three or four feet before risking the arduous task of putting his weight _on_ the log instead of _under_. No sooner had he righted himself did the eagle swoop down again, its massive wings flapping and its claws scratching at his deerskin shirt. A quick swipe shooed the bird away, and Ratonhnhaké:ton moved faster, finally making it to the shelf and ducking into the shadows, a squawk of energy bubbling up from his throat as he ran to the vertical crevice. Swinging over the edge, he began a furious descent down, the eagle determined to protect its territory, and harassed him for several feet before at last Ratonhnhaké:ton was deemed far enough away to no longer bother with. He was left panting on one of the lower shelves, stunned and full of energy and surprised to find himself smiling.

After several minutes of catching his breath he finished his descent, and saw the gleeful grin of Kanen'tó:kon. "Are you proud to upset a mother so fiercely?" he asked, voice coy.

Ratonhnhaké:ton pleaded ignorance. "What?" he asked. "I did that on purpose. Did you get many feathers?"

"Many," Kanen'tó:kon answered. "Almost a dozen; robins, bluejays, and several hawk feathers. Color and strength. Did the eagle allow you her feathers?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out his feathers. "_Hén_," he said simply. Kanen'tó:kon whistled. "Now we hunt."

Kanen'tó:kon sighed. "I've never been a good hunter. And don't say it's because I'm fat!" he added defensively.

"Follow me, then," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I will teach you." Together they pulled out their bows and each took an arrow. Flint had been replaced with metal long ago, trade with the white people brought some advantages to their lives, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stalked the woods on silent feet. Kanen'tó:kon was silent enough, but he did not have the lessons on stillness that the Clan Mother had so earnestly enforced on Ratonhnhaké:ton. His motion was obvious to all the animals, and his lack of balance and extra weight made the paths he chose harder to stay hidden in. Eventually, however, they found a patch of ferns and were able to settle in. Several snares had been set by the river for beavers, in a grassy field for rabbits, and on a hill for foxes. Those would be full by sunset, and now they needed bigger game.

Ratonhnhaké:ton spotted a deer, female, poking through the woods towards the river for water. He gestured at his friend before drawing the bow and taking deliberate aim. Afterwards, he went over skinning and helped Kanen'tó:kon do it properly. The work took them well into the afternoon, and they had several pounds of meat, bone, tendon, teeth, and hide to carry back to the village. They almost didn't make it, the drums were beating and the singing had already started. Kanen'tó:kon was happy to display the bounty, and soon he disappeared into the crowds, telling stories of Ratonhnhaké:ton's battle with a bald eagle, exaggerating it to include an impossible fall into a pile of pine boughs. Many were gathered around the fires, ready to celebrate the bounty the three sisters had provided.

The anxiety began to fill Ratonhnhaké:ton again, seeing the celebration and the joy when he knew all too well that this was an illusion, that they were not safe. He frowned, reaching for stillness, trying to put his tension away to enjoy the evening.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked to see Oiá:ner at his side. She was weathered by time, trial, and wisdom; her face showing the weight of the life she had lived. Her hair was a solid grey, pulled into two braids instead of the traditional one, and she wore the pattern of her station as clan mother: shell earrings and necklaces, deeply embroidered deerskin dress, a scarf that told the story of her life wrapped loosely around her shoulders to keep the autumn chill out. In her hand was a wrapped staff displaying the power she held over the village. Oiá:ner was the oldest of the _oiá:ner_, and it was she who decided the fate of everyone in Kanatahséton. With little more than a gesture Ratonhnhaké:ton took his cue to follow, and they entered into the rebuilt longhouse that had been destroyed in the fire created by the Stone Coat Charles Lee. Ratonhnhaké:ton took his place at the center hearth and Oiá:ner began to speak.

"I know you wonder why it is we do not wander from these woods," she said slowly, her voice as weighed down as the lines of her face. "Why it is we do not join the other Kanien'kehá:ka in war. I know you feel anxiety over the safety of this village, that you would have us pick up and move away from the white people and search for safety elsewhere. Tonight," she said sitting down gingerly, in respect to her old bones, "you will have your answers. Our village sits on sacred ground. And it is our duty - above all other things - to keep it hidden from the world."

He had heard this before. The clan mothers and clan chiefs all spoke of how isolated they were, even with the other Kanien'kehá:ka, and of how they needed to maintain that. "Even if it means allowing our enemies to gain strength?" he asked. "Even if it means the white settlers crawl in, a little at a time, until attrition comes and we are eaten by _atenenyarhu_ that are hidden in their midst?"

Oiá:ner shook her head. "It is a difficult position for us. We are caught between the need to act," she gestured with one hand, "and the knowledge that doing so endangers us," she gestured with the other. Her shadow danced across the far wall of the long house, large and looming, the fingers of her hands blurry and indistinct. Was the choice truly so hard? Was the solution not obvious? It was to him, but what was there that he was missing?

"What is so important that you would see us imprisoned by ourselves?" he asked.

Oiá:ner nodded, getting up and walking over to a simple wooden box, opening it and pulling out a curious object. A sphere like a perfect drop of water, large enough to wrap both hands around with room to spare, and clear as the sky. She held it delicately, gazing into it with contemplation, before walking around the fire and placing it in Ratonhnhaké:ton's hands.

"What is it?" the boy asked.

"A door," she said simply.

And then his world was fille_d with light. Fuck I know what this is. Ezio went through this twice! The sphere of gl_ass glowed so brightly he winced against it, and when he could at last open his eyes he saw he was alone. "Oiá:_ner?" he asked, but the longhou_se itself had been transformed, misshapen into lines of darkness an_d light, texture emboldened by the thin gold str_ips of light, the fire reduced to a small _swell of gold on its own, but even it paled in compar_ison to the globe he held in his hands. He had never seen anything like this before, he felt scared, unc_ertain. Was he in the spirit world? Was the e_vil twin Hahgwehdaetgah to come and do him harm? No, if his village was here to protect something, th_en perhaps it was the good twin Ha_hgwehdiyu, he who put a plant into his mother's body to grant the gift of maize, one of the three sisters. Or would he see something else all together? What was happening? _What was happening?_

"_Greetings guardian._"

Eyes snapped forward, and before him was a wom_an of white holy fuck that's Juno! whi_te veil, white dress, white shawl, and skin so white that Ratonhnhaké:ton could not fathom why the white set_tlers considered themselves white. Dark, finely braided hair see_med to flow about her, and a serene smile was centered on her face.

"Are you," Ratonhn_haké:ton asked, afraid to voice his quest_ion, "a spirit?"

"_You may think of me as such,_" the woman said.

"... Where am I?"

"_You are where you were before. If you mean to ask what it is you now see - it is known as the Nexus. From here, probabilities are calculated so that the proper path may be chosen._"

Path? "What path?"

Behind the wh_ite smile were white te_eth. "_Yours_."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton was engulfed in white.

And then he was flying.

He was...

He was _flying!_

And endless sea of clouds spread out before him, the sun a bright gold to his right and the massive silhouette of a tree off in the distance. For a time all he could do was stare, unable to comprehend that he had been taken to such a beautiful place. It was only when he started to fall that he realized the danger of being so high up. He flapped his wings instinctively, trying to compensate for the dip and swooped up effortlessly on an updraft.

Wait... _wings_?

And, indeed, he had wings, and talons, and a beak, and eyes that could drink in every detail of the cloudy world that he was flying above. Senses were awakened as he had never known before, sight and hearing and sensation rippled through him, he tried to scream but an eagle shriek echoed out of him, high and elated.

"_Follow me._"

Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton see a golden eagle – literally, an eagle of golden light – flying below him, riding the air currents with majesty and skill.

"What have you done to me?!" he demanded, surprised that his voice echoed not from his throat but into the echoes of the world. How as this possible? How was _any_ of this possible?

"_I have selected a form familiar to your culture. It is designed to ease navigation_." The spirit said little more, simply flying through the air, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could only follow through the golden rays of the sun, towards the massive canopy of a tree in the distance. Elation and apprehension filled him in equal parts. The Spirit World was beautiful, _flight_ was beautiful, once he mastered it, and he felt as though he could ride these winds forever. He had a new respect for Tekawerahkwa, the Breath of the Wind and daughter of Iottsitíson the Sky Goddess and the gift she gave the world; he had never felt such powerful winds, had never known that birds could live and play in such a magnificent world. At the same time, he feared what this spirit – what was her name? - had to show him. Dreams were one things, direct visions such as this... he had never heard of them, and he dreaded to learn of the fate that was about to be given to him. Would a fate be given to him? Or would this woman lead him to his mother...?

"_We have waited millennia for your arrival. You - who will bring to him the last piece. That he may open the door._"

"I do not understand."

"_Nor need you._"

The golden eagle dived into the clouds, and Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, the rush of the wind and the sense of a perfectly controlled fall sending a thrill through his new body. No wonder that eagle had attacked him so vigorously, perhaps she wanted the enjoyment of diving like this...!

The world below was not as the paradise above. Winter covered the cliffs and the lands below. There was a sense of cold, darkness, and bleak danger. All the feelings from the fire suddenly flooded him, anxiety bursting in his new chest and making his wings quiver as he continued his dive. His feathers threatened to molt from his body as an icy wind coursed through him, and he could only think of the _atenenyarhu_, the Stone Coats. He felt small, insignificant, alone in such a desolate winter, much as he had as a child, and he felt uncertainty and pain. Why was he going on this journey? Why was this spirit seeking to show him something and yet deem it unnecessary for him to understand? Did he truly matter so little?

"_I sense my words cause pain_," the golden eagle said, her words carrying over the wind and snow and whispering in his ear. "_But such was not my intention. You are important, child. In more ways than you will ever know._"

Important? Important in what-

An unexpected downdraft caught Ratonhnhaké:ton unawares, and with it a new vision splashed across his sight. Men sitting around a table, faces burning into his brain. One man sat at the head, the others looking to him for guidance, faces he had seen before, faces that he would _never forget_. Charles Lee and his compatriots! Led by a man he did not know.

"_As we speak, forces gather in secret,_" the spirit said, "_preparing to seize control of the land._"

It was Ratonhnhaké:ton's worst fear come to pass. The Stone Coats sought to eat his people.

Another vision arrived, the man leading the _atenenyarhu_ with his hand raised in order, an object to his side smoking and an explosion seen off in the distance, Charles Lee looking on. "_If they succeed,_" the golden eagle said, "_the sanctuary will be breached._"

Then Ratonhnhaké:ton was right. They needed to leave, all of them. The entire village must flee to save themselves from the spawn of the evil twin Flint. There was no hope. What could he or his people do against the Stone Coats? They were impervious to weapons! He was wrong to seek to fight as the other Haudenosaunee did, but he _was_ right that staying here would only lead to obliteration.

Beyond the vision was the spirit world again, this time basked in the late evening glow of summer; everything was gold, the scent of pine and hickory thick in the air, maples and oaks and birches thickly knotted, giving Ratonhnhaké:ton a maze to navigate as he flew. The pleasant imagery did not give him comfort, and he could feel his wings straining with the tension his body felt against the knowledge of futility. It could not be so fatalistic; surely, _surely_, there was something that could be done? Some way to stop what this spirit was predicting? Who was she, that she knew so much?

"_Yours is a special lineage,_" the golden eagle said. "_Past. Present. Future. Many are connected to you; many who have changed the world; who _will_ change the world. So too, shall you. I have called you here that you might know your duty_."

Duty? What duty? What was he to do? What _could_ he do in the face of this awful future?

"_You must protect the sanctuary from those that would undo our work._"

Again, sanctuary. "What sanctuary?" he asked. "What work?" Who was she?

Through a field and swooping through a narrow pass, the world abruptly turned to winter again, the chill and bleak anxiety returning with it. An updraft sent him unexpectedly up, he had to shift his wingspan to compensate, and beyond him was the massive tree of before, the distant horizon had at last arrived, and that was when he realized where he was. This was... This was the great tree! Below was the hole into which Iottsitíson fell from the sky; he was journeying to the center of the earth, where the giant turtle was, that saved her and brought her back to the surface. This was no ordinary spirit, this was Iottsitíson, the Sky Goddess herself! The stories of her difficult journey were legend, and pain began to fill his wings and talons as another downdraft caught him, pulling him down into the dangerous thorns of the roots of the tree. More visions were ripped into Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind.

All the faces of his village filled his sight, faces etched in horror and pain and fear, settler crosses and grave markers hanging over their heads. Death. Death was to come. "_Maintaining your current course will result in a negative outcome,_" Iottsitíson said, confirming Ratonhnhaké:ton's fears. Another sight burned into his mind: stone buildings, villages he had never seen before, faceless people, all suffering in some way, fighting, blood was everywhere. "_Premature access will destabilize the region. Your village and its people will be destroyed._"

Fire was everywhere. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt sick to his stomach. How could this be stopped? How could _any_ of this be stopped? What... what...

"What am I to do?" he begged, flying through the roots of the great tree, threatening to clip his wings, to halt his progress, to stop him from his journey. He rode whatever currents of wind he could find, praying he would not die prematurely, hoping there was light at the end of this terrible darkness. He pushed forward, trying to find an end to the sadness, the despair. The roots seemed to move and undulate, closing in on him and giving him narrower and narrower places to fly. He was afraid.

Iottsitíson spoke again, her eagle no longer gold but red, burning embers flying away from her, hot to the touch. "_You will learn of a man who will provide additional training,_" she said, showing a picture of Ratonhnhaké:ton taking something from a man in shadow. "_Seek this symbol._" An arrowhead such as he had never seen before filled his mind, and he unconsciously flew towards it, seeing it over and over, taking him through narrower and narrower openings. The roots were everywhere, on fire, threatening to burn him alive, and still he tried to follow the arrowheads as they appeared, clinging to the missive Iottsitíson had given him, hoping it would lead to the end of the madness.

At the end there was a burst of light, white and consuming and causing Ratonhnhaké:ton to disappear into it as his very soul was ripped apart.

"_No doubt you have many questions. Time will see them answered. For now, you must follow. Leading is for later._"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, what a chapter. And not just Ratonhnhake:ton's emotional roller coaster.
> 
> The culture dump in this chapter is substantial. We've tried really hard to explain it as we go and still make it natural, but some things relate to bigger themes of the story and so there a couple things to point out. One: Iottsitison the Sky Goddess. If you've played Rogue you know her origin story - fell from the sky through a hole in the ground made by a tree; inside there was water from which a great turtle appeared and took her back to the surface; and depending on the legend gave birth to Earth Mother. Earth Mother in turn gave birth to twins: Hagwehdiyu and Hagwehdaetgah (Sky Holder and Flint respectively). Hagwehdaetgah/Flint is said to have burst from his mother's side, killing her, while Hagwehdiyu/Sky Holder planted a seed in his mother's corpse and from it, maize (one of the three sisters) was born. Juno took the form of Iottsitison and Ratonhnhake:ton refers to her as that for the rest of the fic.
> 
> Two: legend vary A FREAKING LOT in Haudenosaunee/Iroquois culture, and the twins are either seen as Good Twin/Bad Twin (which the two of us as twins will grumble over for all eternity) or as the two sides of human nature. Obviously, for Ratonhnhake:ton, his village considers them good/bad twins.
> 
> Three: there are a BUNCH of spirits, animals, and creatures in Haudenosaunee-Iroquois mythology, but the one that's most important for Ratonhnhake:ton is the Atenenyarhu, which translates as Stone Coats. As explained in the chapter, they are stone covered creatures that bring winter and eat people, and that is the effigy Ratonhnhake:ton has settled on to make sense of what happened to him as a child.
> 
> As a side note - according to the game Ratonhnhake:ton is four when this event happens, and that's a bit of a stretch for us to believe for several reasons. He doesn't look four, he doesn't act four, and at the age of four his memories aren't going to be clear enough for him to remember all of this for when he's older. His game model looks closer to eight or ten, so we split the difference and made him six.
> 
> Four: Dreams are a big thing in Haudenosaunee/Iroquois culture. Dreams were considered to be prophetic, and so bad dreams meant bad things were going to happen. Say, someone dreams of loosing a lacrosse match. To undo the bad dream, said someone and their friends will act it out, i.e. play a lacrosse game where the someone looses, to prevent it from happening at an important or big event/time in their life.
> 
> Five: Throughout the rest of the fic, because Ratonhnhake:ton is a native, he will use native names rather than white names for various tribes, people, etc. The Mowhawk are Kanien'keha:ka, Iroquois are Haudenosaunee, etc. Iroquois is the french pronunciation of Hirokoa, which is actually an insult to the Haudenosaunee. The rival tribes who spoke the Algonquian language called the Haudenosaunee hirokoa, which means "killer people." By default we've (perhaps obviously) decided to use it as the native word for Assassin.
> 
> Six:If you ever have time, go to google images and look up native american tribes before colonization. Balk at the number of tribes that lived JUST in New England. One great flaw in this fic is that we just couldn't reach all of those tribes, customs, stories, or even anything relevant to them. We don't even get into the rest of the Haudenosaunee, the Sullivan Expedition notwithstanding. Remember, there used to be 42 MILLION people living in the "New World" before we went and exterminated them.
> 
> Next chapter: A Boorish Man, from a different perspective.


	5. Achilles Davnport

His eyes snapped open, sucking in air and his entire body stiffening in alertness. The sun, the trees, the bright colors of fall. The breath left his lungs in a soft explosion of hot air, and he relaxed. It was over. The vision was over. He sat up slowly, getting his bearings.

Somehow he had come to the edge of the river. His body was stiff, it felt as though he had been sleeping outside on the rocks, and despite that sensation he felt exhausted, ready to sleep for days. Standing, he rolled his hips and stretched his back, working the kinks out and moving to the river. Parts of the vision swept over his mind, and he shivered. The valley was doomed, his people would be destroyed if he did not stop it. He was the only thing that could stop it. He looked at the sandy riverbed, grabbing a stick and closing his eyes, focusing on the last image, the arrowhead he had followed desperately in order to stay alive. With the stick he traced it out into the watery sand, moving pebbles aside to give him room to draw. He needed to put it into reality, see it with his eyes instead of his spirit. He stared at it, realizing his experiences were real, and he an obligation. A duty, as Iottsitíson had said.

"Where, Ratonhnhaké:ton?" He looked up to see Oiá:ner walking up to him, a bundle in her hand. "Where did you see that symbol?" Never had he heard surprise in her voice before, he blinked, wondering where _she_ had seen such a symbol before.

"The spirit showed it to me," he answered, gesturing to it. "She said I would meet a man who would show me the way forward."

"Hmm," his clan mother said, sitting down.

Ratonhnhaké:ton explained the vision the glass sphere had given him. "The Sky Goddess showed me what would happen. The _atenenyarhu_ that attacked us from before, they hide in the clothes of the settlers, hoping to destroy us. The people from beyond the valley will return here; I've known it for a long time now. And so have you, even if you choose to ignore it. But Iottsitíson, she does not want us to be eaten by the Stone Coats."

Oiá:ner looked for a long time; her weathered eyes taking in Ratonhnhaké:ton and the symbol in the sand. "We are sworn to protect this place," she said. "Iottsitíson has always been very clear about our duty to this place. But you are right as well. The world is changing, and we cannot hide forever."

"I will not sit here and wait for our end," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. Fourteen or not, he needed to do something, _anything_, to protect his home and his people. Anxiety started to fill his chest again. Now more than ever he understood how vulnerable they were, and he knew that stillness was not, _could not_, be the answer for him. Oiá:ner was right that he had to master his fears, but stillness was not the way to do it; he needed to _act_, he needed to _move_, to go to this symbol and get the training he would need to save the only life he'd ever known. He stared at Oiá:ner, hoping she would see.

And, just like that,

"Then I release you," she said. "You may leave."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was stunned. "Why have you changed your mind?"

"Because I cannot change yours," she replied. "I have known this would be so for a long time, but still I hoped to convince you. Now I see that the Sky Goddess has plans for you, and who are we to disagree with her? Come, we must tell the others."

Word of his leaving swept like wildfire; the entire village turned out to wish him well on his adventure. Many were happy for him, glad that he had chosen to stretch his wings – a metaphor that held all new meaning for him – and to see the world. All the mothers packed his food, all the men offered their own arrows for him to take and begged he reserve them for special kills only. The children offered him shells and feathers, and Kanen'tó:kon wept openly to see his best friend leave. "I had hoped you would not choose this," he said, hugging his best friend, "But deep down I knew. I wish you well." A second wampum armband was made, weaved with the massive eagle feathers that he had harvested before the spirit journey he had taken.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was numb, going through the motions and unable to fully comprehend what was happening to him. Where would he even go? How would he find the symbol?

Leaving home was harder than he thought. He expected the journey to fill him with a sort of pride. A sense of accomplishment, the divine duty of Iottsitíson. But whatever it was that carried him through his vision soon fled in the face of leaving his home, his village, his valley, replaced by questions - and no small amount of doubt. Was he too hasty? Had he made a mistake? The others in the village - they seemed to think this was something he wanted. Something he chose to do – even Kanen'tó:kon. But it didn't feel that way to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

No, it was not a choice. It was an obligation. Because if not he, then who?

At the mouth of the valley Ratonhnhaké:ton and Oiá:ner stood alone, the others retreated back to Kanatahséton and giving the two a private moment. Anxiety of a different kind was making Ratonhnhaké:ton shift his weight, the anxiety of leaving home, of leaving Oiá:ner, his surrogate mother after the fire. She had helped him through so much, and now he was leaving her wisdom and guidance into the wide world with no idea of where to go or who to seek. There would be no turning back after this, and he wasn't certain if this decision was best, or right, or even absolute; he only knew that this was the only thing he could do.

Oiá:ner saw his fear and put a wrinkled hand on his arm, the silent gesture to practice stillness, and he took a breath and halted his motion. Once he was mastered, she pulled out a rich blue blanket; it must have taken months to dye it so deep a color, and gave it to him.

"Take this," she said. "You will find what you seek in a place to the east, where the water is so large even our great lake pales in comparison to its size. The white people call it '_ocean'_. There, on a cliff, is a house of stone made from clay. It was there I saw the arrowhead you drew. It was borne by a man who will surely help you, as he once helped your mother."

_That_ surprised him. "_Ista_ knew this symbol?" he asked.

"_Hén_," Oiá:ner confirmed. "When you were a newborn there was a war between the two types of settlers, and we were drawn into it by Warraghiyagey and Ounewaterika. Our village did not participate; we are bound by our duty to protect this place. But your _ista_, much like you, was meant for a larger world. She walked amongst both the white men and the tribes, seeking to limit the loss of life, and men who wore this symbol helped her."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. "_Niá:wen_," he said. "For everything you have done for me, for Kanatahséton. For..."

Oiá:ner smiled as he ran out of words to express his gratitude. "Yours is a noble heart," she said. "But I fear you expect too much. From yourself. From this world. Go. Seek your symbol. Find your way."

* * *

Travel was slow. As autumn continued to color the land the trials and paths became thick with fallen leaves, making silent travel difficult. The ground was hard with the night freeze, though, making them more than passable as compared to spring. The nights dropped below freezing, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was happy for the thick blanket Oiá:ner had given him; between it and burying himself under pine boughs or hiding under the lees of massive boulders, he was able to keep warm enough to sleep. The trail mix lasted over two weeks, and when it ran out he began hunting squirrels and hares, eating everything he could and saving the skins and bones for any repairs or needs he might have later. He was far from skilled at clothe-making, but Oiá:ner had made certain he knew enough.

He also practiced his language. Everyone in the village learned the settler tongue as children, in case they ever ran across one who wanted to trade. Their white _sachem_, their white chief, Warraghiyagey had insisted on it, saying it would ease misunderstandings. Ratonhnhaké:ton thought he was excellent at the language, after his inability to understand the _atenenyarhu_ Charles Lee he made a point of working through his frustration to be able to make sentences.

"_Hello_," he said to himself. "_My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Iottsitíson told me to come here._" No, that sounded too simple. If he was to seek training, then he would have to impress the owner of the arrowhead.

"_Hello. A Spirit of my people has sent me on a..._" he frowned, trying to think of the word, "_a journey._" No, he was not certain that the settlers believed in the great spirits. Their religion was different, he had been told, and he wanted to start off on the right foot.

"_I wish to seek training._" Yes, that would be a good start. Got right to the point. From there he could explain how he had been sent, and articulate the plight of his people. "_I do not know of your beliefs,_" he practiced, "_but a spirit of my people gave me a vision._" He practiced the sentences over and over, working them into his mind, building his confidence in speaking the language, getting used to the odd sounds.

As he moved south, out of the valley, he passed through other villages of the Kanien'kehá:ka, others that were more traveled than Kanatahséton, and they helped to give him advice on how to head to the _ocean_. They guided him to a place called Johnstown, the home of Warraghiyagey who helped them trade with the white men. Ratonhnhaké:ton was surprised to see that many of the buildings were of wood, and much smaller than a longhouse. It was explained to him that they were called _homestead_, and that only one family would live in one. That was strange to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and indeed the rest of the Haudenosaunee, who gathered entire clans in their longhouses to share the fire and the fur and the blankets in winter. Communal living was a gift of Skennenrahawi, the Great Peacemaker who taught the five nations to live in harmony and to abolish cannibalism; longhouses were the metaphor of peace. The Kanien'kehá:ka were the guardians of the eastern door in the symbol of the longhouse, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found it almost beyond reason that the settlers lived such isolated lives.

He shied away from the homesteads, not ready to see just how different they were from him, and instead he turned east, his fellow tribesmen keeping him company before reaching an invisible boundary. Beyond was a river; this, he was told, is called _Deerfield River_, and it would lead to the much longer Quinnehtukqut – a name even the white men agreed on, though in their tongue it sounded like the _Connecticut_. One of the colonies was named similarly. The settlers would be in much larger numbers once he crossed the Quinnehtukqut, and he would have to be more weary.

"Why?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

"Because they are further removed from us," his guide told him. "Because they are removed, they do not understand, and because they do not understand, they fear."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and he parted from his people again, following the Deerfield and coming across the Quinn—the Connecticut River two days later. He stayed almost exclusively on the game trails after that, not wanting to frighten the settlers and wary himself of coming across a hidden Stone Coat. The white men were not the only ones who experienced fear, and in spite of him practicing his stillness, anxiety made Ratonhnhaké:ton sleep in trees when he was near a homestead, wrapped in his dark blue blanket and trying to disappear into the empty branches. The bright colors slowly faded as autumn passed its peak, and it slowly came so that he could not travel for more than an hour before finding another homestead, a telling sign that he must be near the _ocean_ and its denser population. He watched them from his hide spots, seeing them shake hands in greeting or going about their work. He was beginning to think he wouldn't be able to avoid the settlers for much longer before the forest thickened once again, giving him a sense of security and safety he had not felt for almost two weeks.

At last, he crested a cliff, and beyond the tops of the trees, off in the distance, was an _enormous _body of water. He gawked at it, wonder filling his mind. Oiá:ner was right, this put the great lake on the other side of the Haudenosaunee look like a puddle of water. Curiosity drove him forward and, after checking the height of the cliff and spying a pile of pine boughs below, leapt over the edge. He had taken to doing that since leaving Kanatahséton; he longed to feel as he did as an eagle, wings spread wide to catch the wind, and he found the fall exhilarating, causing him to shriek like the eagle. Positive energy was in his body now, and he powered his way through a trail large enough to be called a road, leading north and likely to his destination. He pulled out the map his guide had given him, roughly sketched on charcoal, and the symbol he had added later, the arrowhead that would mark the start of his journey. He started to recite the words again, the little speech he had prepared to impress whoever it was that would train him.

As he followed the path, adjusting the bow on his back, he saw two settlers standing at a massive wooden bridge, a cart of cut logs broken off to the side. One man had hair red as fire, and the other more hair on his face than Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever seen before.

"Hello!" the man with chin hair said. At least, Ratonhnhaké:ton _thought_ that was what he said. It was not at _all_ like the pronunciation he had been taught.

The redhead spoke next. His words were very fast, his voice wandering up and down in a way Ratonhnhaké:ton had never experienced before. He caught a few words: native, tribe, and then something that sounded like "_hirokoa_." Killer people. Ratonhnhaké:ton was offended! The Haudenosaunee were not killers, the enemy nations used that term to incite them!

"Course not, Terry," the man with chin hair said. His words were slightly easier to understand. Slightly. "Iroquois ain't a tribe."

… Iroquois? Not _hirokoa_? That was the settler term for the Haudenosaunee, ignorantly given. Ratonhnhaké:ton considered correcting them, but the two were sharing more sentences, their pronunciation nearly incomprehensible, and all too quickly they were grabbing at each other and throwing punches.

Ratonhnhaké:ton discreetly left, uncertain what he had just witnessed.

Further up the road it twisted around a massive boulder and up a short rise, and suddenly Ratonhnhaké:ton was staring at a homestead unlike what he had seen on his travels. As Oiá:ner had said, the homestead was made of stone, and he could see it was not natural stone, meaning it was made of clay as she had said. It rose almost as high as a longhouse, maybe higher, and had a black roof of a material he could not immediately identify. Holes speckled the homestead at regular intervals, and in the holes was a material he had only seen _very_ rarely in the valley: glass. Smoke wafted out of a column sticking out of the side of the building, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was relieved to see one sign of familiarity.

Partway up the hill was a wall made of foraged stones, and in its center were clearly cut stones to assemble into a series of steps. The center of the home held a door, and above it was a shelf sticking out over it for shade, but the young teen saw nothing stored upon the shelf. Did the home need no canoes? The top center hole was arched and on the black roof were more structures sticking out of the slant. The wilds were creeping in on the longhouse, tall pines and obvious overgrowth speckling the path up to the house, giving it a sense of age.

To the left was another structure, similar to the first but to a smaller scale: door in the center, five holes atop, four below, but with no steps or shelves or sense of majesty. To the right were more harvested stones to make a circle, covered with wood, with a pale and rope winch. Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen this on other homesteads, and watched the white people draw water from it. What was the word for it, he wondered. Further down were two longhouses at right angles to each other, but instead of housing people they were clearly housed for animals, animals as large as an elk – what was the word? - _horse_.

The front of the homestead had four white columns, worn almost perfectly smooth, standing as decoration, and between them was a door. Remembering everything he had learned and watched on his journey, he lifted a fist and knocked. He waited, still drinking in the sight of this homestead. It was the largest he had seen yet, was it called a longhouse?

Then, all at once, he realized he was about to meet the man that would train him. Nervousness clutched at his chest, and the enormity of what was about to happen washed over him. He knocked again, suddenly worried that he had been too quiet before. The speech, the speech, what was the speech he had been rehearsing?

The door opened and a stooped, aged man appeared. To Ratonhnhaké:ton's shock, his skin was not white but rather dark, like fresh turned earth. He had not realized people could come in that color. Was he another spirit, someone in disguise?

A soft, papery voice. "What?" it demanded.

The speech! "Um..." No! Be impressive! He shifted on his feet, remembered that he had to be still, clasped his hands together. "I..." What were the words? _What were the words_? "I was told you could train me," he said in a rush, voice embarrassingly soft.

A pause, eyes flicking up and down.

Then,

"No."

And the door slammed in his face.

What?

… What happened?

He knocked again.

"Go away!" the dark man said behind the door.

… _What?_ Ratonhnhaké:ton had traveled all this way, over a month of walking, avoiding settlers, sleeping in trees, following the Sky Goddess' command to be trained, to protect his people and just... just... _no?_

"I am not leaving!" he said, knocking again.

He stood at the door for over an hour, watching the sun set and still knocking at intervals, determined that all that he had done would not be in vain. He would be trained, he _had_ to be trained! There was no other option, and he would not let this dark skinned man simply say _no_.

Well after sunset the rains came. This late in the season it was a freezing rain, cold and prone to icing on surfaces. Ratonhnhaké:ton needed a place to camp, and the wood structure that held the horse looked as good as any. He darted over to it, pulling out his blanket and wrapping it around himself. The horse flicked an ear at him in curiosity but otherwise ignored him, and Ratonhnhaké:ton settled in for the night. The Thunders rolled in, the winged storm spirits with the heads of turkeys dancing in the sky. It heartened Ratonhnhaké:ton; the Thunders were honorable and fair, and if they were here, he was convinced it was because they were giving the fourteen-year-old their blessing, reassuring him he was in the right place. The noise lulled him to sleep.

He began knocking again the next morning with the sunrise, pounding his fist against the door and feeling slightly satisfied when he heard noise above him, the sounds of a man startled awake. He worked at it for two hours before wondering if there was another way inside. He circled the homestead, uncertain how the mechanisms blocking the holes worked at a glance and resolving to study them further later. At the back of the house was another door, again perfectly centered, and he began knocking on that.

"Please," he said, wondering if words would help. "All I ask is a moment of your time."

He heard a noise above him, and his eyes snapped up to see the man settling to lean against the hole, _window_, that was the word.

"I apologize if I've been unclear - or otherwise confused you with my words, it was never my intention to mislead." Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled to mentally translate the words fast enough, but the man was speaking just slowly enough that he could follow. "So let me try to clarify: _get the hell of my land_!"

Utterly fed up, Ratonhnhaké:ton replied in kind: "I'm coming up!"

He could hear no sound inside the longhouse, and so he began circling the longhouse again. On the north side were more columns, and a shelf that stored nothing on top of it. The climb was easy, he almost glided up with the easy handholds of the brick and above there was another door. He grabbed it, expecting it to just open, but it would not turn fully, and he was left to shake the infernal thing, frustration driving him to yank and pull and tug. "Just hear me out!" he shouted. "What are you so afraid of?"

He was not certain if that was what this man was feeling, but the old man was clearly feeling _something_ in order to so stubbornly and adamantly deny even _talking _to Ratonhnhaké:ton. What other emotion could it be? Settlers this far east were wary of natives because they did not interact with them; Ratonhnhaké:ton would prove to this man that there was nothing to be afraid of, and-

The door suddenly jerked out of his hands, and the old man stepped out, stooped and hard to see under the wide brim of his hat.

"Afraid?" the old man growled, his words low and angry and dangerous. Ratonhnhaké:ton startled to see such a sudden reaction after so many hours of quiet. "You think I'm afraid of _anything_," he growled, reaching out and with his walking stick and yanking Ratonhnhaké:ton right off his feet, "least of all, a self-important little scab like you?!" The stick pressed up against his neck, a pressure that flashed him back to when he was six, when the Stone Coat Charles Lee had nearly killed him. Air caught in his lungs, and for a moment blind panic overtook him. Struggling, he practiced stillness.

"Oh, you might dream of being a hero," the man said. Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard the word _hero_ before, what did it mean? "Of riding to rescues, of saving the world - but stay this course and the only thing you're going to be is _dead_."

The moment hung in the air, thick and heavy with something Ratonhnhaké:ton could not identify. An emotion played on the old man's face, deep and dark. At last he pulled his stick back, righting it and leaning his weight on it. "The world's moved on, boy," he said. "Best you do too."

And like a wisp of smoke he was gone, slamming the door again.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was at a loss. Failure was not an option. Iottsitíson had said that if he stayed this course, it would bring a negative outcome. Negative meant the absolute destruction of his people by the _atenenyarhu_. By Charles Lee.

"I will not leave!" he shouted. "Do you hear me? I am _never_ leaving!"

He spent the rest of the day assaulting the house, knocking on doors and windows, examined the roof and sticking his head into the smoke stack to see if there was a way in that way. At noon he climbed a tree, glaring at the house and nibbling on his trail mix before trying again. But the old man did not reply to his petitions again, fully expecting to just wait him out.

Just wait, old man. Ratonhnhaké:ton would not be defeated so easily. He _would_ train him, he _had_ to.

That night, Ratonhnhaké:ton slept with the horse again, the Thunders giving him encouragement as he burrowed into his blanket. Sleep was deep from the fatigue of the day, but in what felt like a blink of an eye his senses alerted him to wake. Through the rain he saw the silhouettes of men, their coats covered in something that let the rain sweep off them.

"He's a square toes," one of them was saying. "This'll be easy."

"That's what you said last time and I wound up with a dead 'orse an a dark eye." A glare was shared, before the second man spoke again in his strange accent. "You hear 'im before? Sayin' 'e 'as no master but 'imself. What a load of fee, faw, fum. If he ain't no master, guess he's ours to do with as we please."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped forward, uncertain what was going on.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Both men startled at his silent approach, and the first man gave a cold, hard look. "No one you need concern yourself with, little breeches."

"Best cut 'fore something bad 'appens," said the second.

Cut? Did he mean leave? _Leave?_ When the man to train him had yet to accept him? His answer was immediate. "No."

"Can't say we didn't warn ya."

And that was how the fight started. Ratonhnhaké:ton was startled by the first swing, he ducked it more from instinct that any real skill, and he realized these men were in his way, preventing him from getting his training. After two days of refusal and dismissal, something broke in Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he let out a short, guttural cry of anger before launching himself at the two men. Pulling out his stone _tamahac_ he swung it down at an angle, chopping into one of the man's shoulders and causing a startled cry before he yanked it out, blood spraying in the rain, and chopping again and again. He knew very little after that, his anxiety turning to anger and, without the stillness that Oiá:ner had taught him, it turned into brutal violence. All he understood was that these men were _in the way_, and he would remove them by _whatever means necessary_.

The first was easy to overcome by the surprise of his violence, the second pulled out a war club of some kind and Ratonhnhaké:ton swatted it aside, driving a shoulder into the man's chest and following up with an elbow and then a chop with his _tamahac_, breaking the ribcage and setting out a stream of blood. He kicked the man off his hatchet and turned to see a third man lunging at him with a stick of metal and wood. _Musket_.

The word pulled him out of his berserk rage and he remembered all too clearly the terror of that weapon. He dodged around it, wary, and caught the next swing with his _tamahac_ and deflected it to the side, grabbing at the coat of the man – it was covered in _wax_, how clever – and swung him over his shoulder, pounding him into the hard mud as the rain became particularly heavy.

He stood over the third man, panting and a little lightheaded that he had just _done_ that. Stillness. He practiced stillness until calm returned to him, and he realized these men were not just obstacles in his way, but these men had intended ill on the old man on the hill; were they _atenenyarhu_? Stone Coats? He needed answers.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "What do you want?"

Eyes glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, and Ratonhnhaké:ton started to turn when stars burst from his eyes and he staggered to the side, the blow followed by a blunt impact to his midsection, driving all air out of him and sending him careening into the icy mud. A fourth man, one Ratonhnhaké:ton had not seen, gazed down at him with an evil sneer. "Working for the old man, eh?" he grunted, and he lifted a club, ready to strike.

But, curiously, he did nothing, instead stiffening, a dark shadow covering his hand and a squelching sound bleeding through the torrent of rain. The man fell, and behind him was the old man on the hill. He stood in the mud, a small knife in his hand, and the Thunders rejoiced over his head, a dance of lightening making the night look as day, and for the first time Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that training was not an abstract, vague word; it was exactly what this man had done, the skill in which he had done it, and the ease of which he made it look. This man was a master of all things.

The dark skinned man reached down and offered a hand. Ratonhnhaké:ton belatedly pulled a shaky hand out of the mud and took it. Even in his age, the man had strength, hoisted him up with ease.

He... he had saved Ratonhnhaké:ton's life.

"_Niá:_..." he stopped, corrected himself. "Thank you."

The man glanced at the four bodies at his feet, made a face. "Clean this up," he said, his voice papery. He shook his head. "Then, I suppose we should talk..."

And without another word he hobbled his way back up the hill and into the homestead.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood in the rain, numb and a little dazed, unable to fully process what had happened. Had... had the Thunders presented these men so that Ratonhnhaké:ton could gain access to the old man? Or was it the hand of the Sky Goddess? Or something else altogether? He looked down at the corpses, realized belatedly that these had been living men, and in his blind rage he had killed two of them, and two more were downed by the old man. All the trail mix left his body in one massive fit of coughing, realization sickening him almost to senselessness. Wiping his mouth, he looked up to the black night sky, rain still coming down, and realized for the first time how difficult the path was that he was about to walk.

For a split second he thought of going back to his valley, to shy away from this task. But the question followed him: if he did not take this dark trail, who would? Iottsitíson had said he was special, that this was his duty. He could not turn away from it, no matter how hard it would be.

Taking a breath, he stood and looked for a shovel.

It took over two hours, the shallow graves difficult to dig in half frozen earth, even softened by the cold rain. He laid them behind a tall pine, south of the homestead, and when he was done he looked out over the graves he had dug and bowed his head, uncertain what ritual he was supposed to follow for white men. All he could do was apologize in his native tongue, and then he moved to the house.

Shivering with the cold, he rubbed his muddy hands up and down his arms, moving to the only light in the house: the hearth. He hoped to dry and warm there, and the old man sat there, waiting for him. He gestured to a chair and Ratonhnhaké:ton sat heavily – so heavily, in fact, that the entire thing broke under his weight and he collapsed into a heap on the ground. It startled him to more alertness, and he scrambled to his feet, uncertain. He had just broken something of the old man's... would this give him trouble?

Hastily, he apologized. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," the old man said with a simple gesture. "This whole place is ready to come down. Goddamn miracle it hasn't already." The fourteen-year-old sagged in relief. "Anyway, who are you?"

"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."

A pause, and then, "Right." The old man shifted his weight. "Well, I'm not even going to try and pronounce that." For some reason, that hurt to hear, but Ratonhnhaké:ton had his own difficulties with settler names, perhaps the old man would use it once he was used to it. "Now tell me why you're here."

Yes! The explanation! He shuffled through his things, pulling out the map and the arrowhead. "I was told to seek this symbol," he said, handing it over to the old man. He did not blink, did not frown, did not show any surprise to see the stylized arrowhead, instead took the paper and looked up to Ratonhnhaké:ton, completely closed off.

"Do you even know what that symbol represents? Or what it is you're asking for?"

"... No," he admitted, a shiver running down his spine. He rubbed his arms again and adjusted the bow on his back. A brief twitch in the old dark man's eye spurned Ratonhnhaké:ton to explain, to try and convince this man to training after two days of refusal. "The spirit said that," he started, "that I've -" No, none of this sounded right, he was supposed to sound articulate, fluent, impressive! Anxiety started to bleed into him, his head hurt and he didn't know what to do.

The old man held up a hand, however, stopping him from saying more.

"These 'spirits' of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries. Ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle." Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes widened, words he had never heard before being used. _Assassin_? _Ezio_? They were unlike anything he had heard before, and he feared losing track of the conversation. The old man saw his nervousness and leaned back, pausing and saying something else instead: "Ah," he said, "but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, cold to the bone.

"Well," he said with a sigh, "best settle in, then. I've got a story to tell and it's going to take a while to get it all out."

Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out another chair, sat in it more gingerly, and they began to talk.

The fourteen-year-old learned the hard way that he was not nearly as fluent in the settler language as he originally thought. The old man wanted his story first, and not just the tale of the Sky Goddess, he wanted Ratonhnhaké:ton's entire life history. Ratonhnhaké:ton spoke of his mother, what little he knew of her before he was born, the name of his father which had caused the old man's eyes to tighten, the _atenenyarhu_ Charles Lee and the men with him, the destruction of Kanatahséton, and the clear sphere of glass that had taken him to Iottsitíson and the vision she had granted him. Several of the words he wanted to use he did not know how to say in the white man's tongue, and he frustrated himself as he tried to explain.

The old man, in turn, had his own difficulty. _His_ story was one that lasted over six hundred years, with holy wars and swaths of the world that Ratonhnhaké:ton could not even comprehend. The word _assassin_ was explained: a man or woman that killed people. But that was not the complete explanation, only the one that common people understood. The old man said that _assassin_ meant a man or woman who killed people who lifted themselves above others and held humanity in contempt. Assassins held something called a _creed_, a set of rules that guided them in all that they did. They fought against _templar_, men and women who sought to see the world ruled by them, guiding the course of humanity according to their own designs. It was a story unlike any Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever heard before. It was more than just legends and myths, it was true events, this man had read the accounts of the assassin _Ezio_, his name meaning eagle.

When Ratonhnhaké:ton heard that he knew he was on the right path. _He_ was an eagle, his spirit journey had showed him as much, and now he was with a tribe that lauded eagles. The old man moved on to explain politics, _renaissance_ and _borgia_ and _papacy_, words that meant nothing to Ratonhnhaké:ton and making him frustrated to understand. There were too many words sometimes, and the young teen had to hold his throbbing head as he struggled to absorb them all. Other times he spoke of visions, the spirits of old visiting people like _Ezio_, leaving messages and warning, giving them duties just as the Sky Goddess had given him one. For the first time since the fire, Ratonhnhaké:ton felt something resembling security, safety. He was in the company of a man who knew how to fight the Stone Coats, and in time he, too, would learn how to fight and defeat them. Since leaving the valley, Ratonhnhaké:ton felt his decision had been the right one.

"... and so this is why the Assassins have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of the Templars. Because if they succeed - your spirit's visions will become reality."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. "Then I will stop them," he said. It was his duty.

"Oh, I have no doubt you'll try," the old man said, his tone sardonic. Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned; had he said something wrong? "Come on," he was saying, "I've something to show you. Careful. Wasn't a joke when I said this place was coming apart."

The old man moved away from the fire, standing with only some difficulty and moving into the shadows. Ratonhnhaké:ton stood to follow; the movement waking him up slightly after the long and grueling conversation. He could make out few details, but this was the second time the man had demurred over the state of his home.

"Why don't you repair it?" he asked.

"What's the point?" the old man countered. "Besides I don't have materials for the job."

He shrugged in the darkness. "So buy them."

That caused the old man to pause, turning around and his black silhouette glaring up at the teen. "Look at me," he said, his voice bitter and angry and pained all at once. "You think I can just march into some store, purse full of pounds, and go shopping?"

… Huh?

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered. "Why not?"

A heavy sigh. "So naïve," the old man muttered, shuffling down the hall. His walking stick, _cane_, lifted up and pulled at a candle that was attached to the wall. A soft clicking sound could be heard, and the old man pushed at the wall, and to Ratonhnhaké:ton's amazement it opened, revealing steps down into the ground. He followed in awe, watching as the old man began to light candles, and deep under the homestead was a room unlike anything Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen before.

At the base of the steps was more stone creating a floor, and further in was a circle of earth. Beyond was a rack of some kind, empty of whatever it was to hold. To the right, wood spread out to create a second floor, a table put up against the wall, with wood and cloth covering the vertical surface. A cabinet was there, as was a stool and tools of some kind, and this seemed to be only the beginning, Ratonhnhaké:ton could see the room opened up further around a corner.

What drew his eye the most, however, was a settler coat resting on tightly wrapped straw on a pole, looking almost as a man standing in the center of the circle. It was white, like the eagle feathers on his wampum armbands, with blue trim that reminded him of his blanket upstairs. At its feet was a box, plain and unadorned, but then Oiá:ner's box had looked similarly. Was another sphere in it? He bent down to look.

All at once the walking stick slapped at his hands; the old man was the most silent hunter Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever met, and his alertness jolted again as he realized what he was doing. "Don't think you can just come in here, throw those on and call yourself an Assassin."

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt chastised, backing up and shifting his weight again. He had upset a man who had taken over two days to _talk_ to him, the _last_ thing he needed was to make the man go back on his decision before he even agreed to the training. He stuttered, still chilled and trying to find the right words to say.

"I... did not..." he worried his hands, trying again. "I would never presume..."

Another sigh. "That's alright," the old man said. "I know they've a certain allure."

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, keeping his gaze to the floor, afraid of doing something _else _wrong. He practiced stillness.

"... Very well," the old man said, resignation in his voice. "I'll train you. Then we'll know if you've the right to wear those robes."

Relief flooded through Ratonhnhaké:ton, satisfied that he had at last been accepted by this cantankerous old man. "Thank you," he said, and then immediately stumbled when he realized he did not know this man's name. "Uh..."

"Name's Achilles," the old man replied, taking his walking stick and patting the back of his foot. "Come on, then. We've work to do."

The old man, Achilles, moved to one of the tables, gesturing with his walking stick that Ratonhnhaké:ton remove the wood boards leaning on it. He did so, and saw an incredible series of likenesses cast in frames before him. His eyes snapped to the _atenenyarhu_, the Stone Coat Charles Lee, and his mind jolted back to when he was six, the sensation of hands around his neck, the vitriol of a language he did not yet understand, the hatred in those eyes of stone, before he ate his village. These were the faces the Sky Goddess had shown him in the vision, these were the ones who wanted the Sanctuary, whatever that was, and sought to destroy his people.

"What do the Templars want?" he asked slowly, staring intently at all of the faces.

"What they've always wanted:" Achilles said. "Control. They see an opportunity in the colonies. A chance for new beginnings, unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs: A people in service to the principles of order and structure."

A people in service...

He nodded. "I have seen what is to come if they succeed. They have to die, don't they? All of them." He looked to the other likeness, the one that he had never seen before but recognized all the same. He shared a jaw, a nose, with that face, and now at last he understood why his mother had been hurt by that man. By Haytham Kenway. If the others had to die, as was the way of the _assassin_, then so did he. "Even my father."

"Especially your father," Achilles said. "He's the one holding the whole thing together. Come, it must be past two in the morning. We'll rest and get a fresh start in the morning."

* * *

That night Ratonhnhaké:ton dreamt of _kanontsistóntie_, undead flying heads created from violent murder, and when he woke he realized that in his rush to begin his journey he had not taken a dream catcher with him. Suddenly frightened, he left the brick longhouse and scoured the surrounding woods for materials, returning just after dawn to the Old Man – to Achilles standing at the base of the stairs.

He sighed. "And here I thought I'd finally chased you off," he muttered.

"I am sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly. "It is just... I had a bad dream, and I realized-"

"No assassin ever has _good_ dreams, boy," the dark skinned man replied. "I've yet to see a dream catcher manage to keep bad dreams away."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised. "You know what that is?"

"I know a lot of things," Achilles replied. "Some of which I will teach you. When you feel like getting around to it."

And so he trained. The first two days were a rigorous assessment of what he could do physically; Achilles made him run and climb for hours on end, and asked the boy to go through basic forms of fighting. He said nothing, did not blink or otherwise react to what Ratonhnhaké:ton did. By the end he simply said, "Well, there's certainly room for improvement."

Mornings were relegated to physical work: running, climbing, fighting, _falling_, much to Ratonhnhaké:ton's regret. There seemed to be more falling than anything else, Achilles was adamant the fourteen-year-old learn how to absorb the energy of a fall from any height, any angle, any way possible, and was more than happy to use his wealth of stealth to sneak up on Ratonhnhaké:ton at the most inopportune moments, pulling his weight out from under him with simple touches or nudges. Fighting forms were gone over under the homestead, the _root cellar_. The coat became Ratonhnhaké:ton's target, how to hit, how to duck, how to dodge and roll and swept into another attack. Ratonhnhaké:ton learned the hard way that he was not the master of his body that he thought he was, and Achilles seemed to take dark pleasure in reminding him of that over and over and _over_ again.

And for every lesson that concerned the body, there were two that concerned the mind. Language was the first priority. Every night Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to read aloud from a book, _Poor Richard's Almanac_; and Achilles corrected his pronunciation (_constantly!_) and helped work the boy through difficult words. With infinite patience he answered questions Ratonhnhaké:ton had, defining words and explaining oddities of settler – _european_ – culture.

Some of it Ratonhnhaké:ton knew; the year was split into chunks called months, and each month had alternating days, and the days were split into groups of seven called weeks. It had never really _meant_ much to Ratonhnhaké:ton, but Achilles showed him how the Europeans planned their years, their very lives, around the calendar. Even then, the boy didn't really _get_ it until he told Achilles that he had always been told his birthday was on April fourth, and Achilles pointed it out on a calendar, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could count how many days and weeks and months were left until his birthday.

As winter swept in and his literacy and fluency improved, simple reading moved on to other things. Philosophy. Logic. The arts... It was important, Achilles emphasized, that Ratonhnhaké:ton understand the white man's _mind_, the culture that lead them to decisions that were so baffling to Ratonhnhaké:ton as a Kanien'kehá:ka. Despite his utter inability to speak in Ratonhnhaké:ton's or any other native language, Achilles had a robust understanding of their culture and traditions, and that was when Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that assassins were more than just white men; they were _anyone_.

Achilles taught most often of the Assassins and Templars. Their structures, origins, and purpose. Centuries of history condensed into weeks. The Templars saw themselves as shepherds, they saw the ways of humanity and decided to simply let it be, so long as they, the Templars, were special and above the rest, and only they were wise enough to guide humanity to a plan only they could see. Ratonhnhaké:ton saw immediately the flaw of that line of thinking: no man or woman was above anyone else. Clan mothers chose Clan chiefs who lead debates at the Haudenosaunee meetings until an answer was arrived at; through deliberation and consideration. Everyone played a part in the running of the Haudenosaunee, and to say one tribe was better than the others and make all the decisions was absurdity. Achilles nodded at Ratonhnhaké:ton's observation, but said that life in Europe was not so harmonized, and the brutal history he articulated emphasized the point.

Ratonhnhaké:ton told him of the men who had burned his village. Of Charles Lee and his promise to him, of the Stone Coats. Achilles explained that legends of old were not legend, nor were they truth. There was, before time was counted, a civilization that simply came... before. Humanity was created in their image and the legends of old were created to explain this first civilization. The Sky Goddess that Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen in his spirit vision could also be Minerva, an old goddess of the... what was the word?... the _greeks_. They were not all powerful as people believed, just more advanced. Such talks left Ratonhnhaké:ton with headaches and uncertain of the truth of anything. Achilles said that was no surprise, and that many assassins were deeply religious in spite of their increased knowledge.

In paltry detail, Achilles spoke of the fall of the assassins in the colonies during what was called the French and Indian War. It was the war between the British and the French – two countries in Europe that had colonies here and often fought with each other. He gave little detail, only just enough to get the point across, and Ratonhnhaké:ton learned of how the Templars, of how Charles Lee and his father had systematically destroyed the assassins. He rather got the impression that Achilles was trying to scare him away, but the story only made Ratonhnhaké:ton more determined. Others had failed, the path was difficult, but he would do it.

He would do it simply because he had to, because it was the only way to protect his home and make it safe again, to remove the anxiety that so constantly plagued him.

Snow stretched over the land, and one year ended and another began, 1770. As the second month began, Ratonhnhaké:ton's fluency and literacy had greatly improved, and though his head was swimming with details he was beginning to grasp the depth of the task that had been laid before him. Every morning he rose at dawn and ran as far as his body would take him from the property, marking his progress with notches in trees and taking some small pride in how much further he could run now. Walking back he practiced other exercises; focusing not on his legs and endurance but on his abdomen and his arms, building flexibility and agility. He passed the two men with strange accents, still camped by the bridge, their logs slowly changing into other shapes. Once he was back at the homestead, he climbed trees and hung from them for as long as possible. First it was with pines and maples, their sap helping him stay in place, but now he hung from oak and hickory, seeing how long his grip could last without aid. Breakfast came midmorning, just about when his stomach was complaining, and he ate with Achilles in the kitchen.

That had been its own experience, learning how to use the myriad of settler eating utensils properly. That had been a long day, Achilles refusing to feed him until he could maneuver his large hands around the tiny implements of metal, name what they were and what they did, and explain how a five course meal was served. That was back in November, but now he could use forks and spoons without misunderstanding, and he cut up his squash and maize and discovered his enjoyment of boiled eggs.

After breakfast was fighting in the root cellar, Achilles now with him and taking him through forms, slowly at first but with gradual speed. This was more challenging than the run and exercises, because the old man constantly snuck upon Ratonhnhaké:ton as he was doing his training to catch him unawares.

"Your single-minded focus will be the death of you," the old man often said. "An Assassin must not only have his goal in mind, but also an awareness of the world around him; his senses must be that of an eagle, to absorb everything at a glance and have the intelligence and level of perception to see what needs to be done, _not _what you want to do."

"_Eagle_?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked; the word was familiar but he did not remember it immediately.

"Yes, a giant bird of prey. A bald eagle sits in the back room, I've seen you stare at it."

Ratonhnhaké:ton thought on that after lunch, when Achilles had him practice reading and writing letters and news sheets, quizzing him on higher understanding and pressing him hard to see the meaning beneath the words, another skill Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to lack. "You take their words as truth, don't. Newspapers are tools for propaganda, to spread one-sided messages. An assassin must see past these harangues and understand the truth hidden behind the bluster." After supper he was reading the almanac again, part of his mind wondering about eagles and hidden truths and focus when all at once if felt as though a part of his mind awakened. He heard an eagle shriek, not outside but somewhere in his mind, and all at once he was aware of _everything_. It startled him into quiet, and he stared hard at the words, aware that Achilles was sitting across from him in the hearth, staring at him in anticipation, aware that there were birds tapping at the window behind him, aware that the scent of wood was in the air, as well as smoke from the fire and candles. Outside he heard wind, there would be a storm tonight. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before...

Except his mind immediately jumped to his spirit journey. When he _was_ an eagle, he had felt exactly like this. His breath quickened, and all at once the sensation disappeared, his mind closed, and all was as it was before.

His eyes snapped to Achilles.

"Well?" the old man asked.

"Something..." he frowned, swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "The world changed... or perhaps I changed... there was an eagle... my mind... I could see..."

Achilles leaned back in his chair, nodded, hand playing with his cane. "I wondered if you had the gift," he said. "The hunters of your people have the mental focus to bring it about. That, boy, is what many of the assassins called _eagle vision_. It is a rare gift, even among the most highly trained of us, and it permits us to see the world as no one else can." Slowly, stiffly, he stood. "Now we need to train you to access that special sight at will. Ezio wrote a great deal about it, but he was a terrible writer. Shao Jun was more articulate, but Chinese is not my specialty."

And so his schedule changed again. Before fighting every morning after breakfast, Achilles took him through a series of breathing exercises, teaching him stillness in a way Oiá:ner could never dream of. He opened his mind a piece at a time, focusing on how it felt and listening for eagles.

By the end of February, Ratonhnhaké:ton felt he had improved greatly, but Achilles was less complimentary.

"You've only just started your training," he said, "You're hardly ready to be called a novice, let alone an assassin, but perhaps now you might survive a trip to the world of the colonies. Now, tell me why the death of Christopher Seider in the _Boston Gazette _is an omen of bad things to come."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned, uncertain. "He was eleven years old," he said. "The death of a child is always sad. Will the parents begin a mourning war?"

"No," Achilles replied, "The colonies don't make a habit of kidnapping children to recoup their losses. And, more importantly, you'll learn that children are as much a commodity as land; they are weighed by how much they can earn rather than who they are."

"I do not understand."

"I don't expect you to," Achilles said. "That is something only experience can teach."

A week and a half later, when Ratonhnhaké:ton had finished breakfast and entered the root cellar to begin fighting, the old man was nowhere to be found. Frowning, he climbed the stairs and searched the house before exiting outside. Achilles was with the horse at the stables, hitching the animal up to an open wooden box on wheels – what was the word? _Wagon_.

"Good morning," Achilles said simply.

"To you as well," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered. "You taking a trip?"

"I've decided to do something about the house. And you're going to help me. Get in."

With ease Ratonhnhaké:ton hopped up into the contraption, and with a flick of the leather straps, the _reins_, they began riding off the property. Crossing the bridge, Achilles gave a hard look at the two strange speakers and their half made building. "Do they even know this land is already owned?" he muttered in perennial bad temper. Ratonhnhaké:ton had to remind himself that land here was not communal, land was meant for one person instead of everyone, and that the two strange speakers living on Achilles' land was probably wrong.

"What is it they are doing?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "And why is it wrong?"

But the old man said nothing, instead continuing the ride south. After over two hours of driving, he finally explained. "We're going to Boston," he said. "It's the largest city in this colony, and I can't think of a better place to get the supplies we need for the house. It's also some forty miles from here, so it will take almost three days to get there with a wagon."

"Why do we need a wagon?"

"Because many of the supplies will be big and impossible to carry otherwise. Hammers and nails to fix the dining room are one thing, ordering new shudders for the windows or replacement bricks for the facade are something else. There's also flour and grain and salt and sugar, since I'm now feeding for a boy that eats enough for three."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be," Achilles said. "Every novice and apprentice that ever graced an assassin's doors did the same thing. I rather loath traveling in winter; I thought I had enough to last me through, but sometimes life just... gets in the way."

They passed many homesteads along the well-travelled road, farms taking up a hill, or another cart making a similar errand. They spent the night in a town called Salem. Achilles secured them lodgings in an inn, the keepers looking at both of them with suspicion. Training was not to be ignored, however, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was once again reading _Poor Richard's Almanac_ before going to bed. They left at dawn the next morning and stopped again in Charlestown, a city north of the isthmus that Boston lay on, and Connor looked out over the water to see something he had _never_ seen before.

"Don't stare," Achilles hissed, snapping his cane into the teen's ribs.

"Sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly.

"Come on," the old man said, "We'll need lodging."

That night Achilles set Ratonhnhaké:ton down to talk.

"I've tried to prepare you for this but it's time I made a few things clear," he said, stretching his feet out awkwardly to the hearth. "I've seen it happen before with apprentices that come from tribes such as yours, the shock of a different culture is going to be phenomenal."

"That city," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, wide eyed, trying to describe the sight. "It is incredible. Even the meetings with the Haudenosaunee council of chiefs, they do not reach such size or number. The sheer number of homesteads is staggering. How will it look when we are finally in such a place? How will it sound? How will it look?" He took a breath, something in his chest that wasn't anxiety bubbling up. "How many people live there? After so many conversations of how the Europeans fight amongst each other I..." he frowned, trying to find the right word, "I cannot _reconcile_ what you have said with how so many people must be living in harmony on that city."

"_In_ that city," Achilles corrected. "And you don't even know the half of it. Anyone can think that, _I_ thought that upon a time. These days I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."

"But there is so much _life_ there," Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "As a child we were told that homesteads were built from the bones of my people that were eaten. I had always pictured large, empty longhouses of stone, devoid of feeling. Cold. But that sight..."

"... naïve..." escaped under Achilles breath, a word Ratonhnhaké:ton had heard many times from the old man but whose definition was never explained. "Listen," the dark skinned man said instead. "You're going to need a new name. I'm not the only one who has a poor ability to pronounce native languages. Your skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a Native. And both are better still than I."

"That is not true," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, surprised that the Old Man had ranked himself so low.

Something ghosted over Achilles' face. A smile? But the permanent frown was there and the old man sighed. "What's _true_ and what _is_ aren't always the same," he said. "I have not yet told you all facets of the colonies, but I'm certain many will be discovered tomorrow. For now simply take my word that you should be considered a Spaniard. You need a name."

"What would you call me, then?"

A very long pause drew out, Achilles thinking with his face completely closed off. "Connor," he said finally. "Yes. That will be your name."

* * *

The next morning they rode around the edge of the water, called the Back Bay, and slowly turned north and up the isthmus; they passed through a structure Achilles called Southgate, and traveled up the narrow stretch of land called the Boston Neck, and soon they were in the city proper.

Whatever Ratonhnhaké:ton – no, _Connor_ – thought when he saw the city from across the bay, it was _nothing_ compared to being _inside_ it. The buildings stretched on for eternity; instead of being longhouses they seemed to be _tall _houses, they stretched up and up, three or four stories. Everything was brick and stone and wood, houses clustered around each other in loose circles, the land they encircled used as common land for animals to graze, or a safe place to hang laundry to dry, or wells for pulling water. One massive hill was named by Achilles as Boston Commons, the hill filled with cows and sheep and other farm animals. Streets slowly changed from dirt to brick – Ratonhnhaké:ton had never thought of such an innovation, and seeing the roads flatter and smoother was immediately felt with the reduced bouncing of the cart. Poking up from the already tall houses were massive spires of human construction, and Achilles had to explain that most of them were _churches_, places for men and women to congregate and worship their spirits.

Ratonhn – Connor saw dogs and cats and sheep and rats and pigs and all assortments of animals dodging the legs of hundreds, _thousands_ of people. Horses walked up and down the streets, navigating droppings just as the people did, and between the barks and meows and grunts and the consistent and myriad sources of conversation, it all blurred together to a general hum of activity that Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard before. Noise was everywhere, disjointed, unharmonized, and yet strangely unified. The smell of the city was sharp, with the animal droppings everywhere, old food that had gone bad, and several shops had strange odors leaking out whenever a door was opened. And given the cold, Connor just knew it would be worse in the summer heat. Every avenue seemed to break off to hidden alleys and side streets, children ran up and down, playing in the March snow, throwing snowballs and shrieking as the cold sifted between their clothes. Everyone was dressed strangely, women in long, multi-layered skirts and dresses, shawls, and curious things that covered their hair. _Bonnets_, Achilles explained, it was considered improper for women to expose something as alluring as their hair, sinful. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't understand that at all but accepted that it was custom. Men wore leggings that were not deerskin, and ended at their knees instead of their ankles, white stockings often covering the rest. Coats were of any color imaginable, with thick piping and cuffs and boarders that marked their wealth and station. Hats were triangles, and hair was pulled back into simple tails, and many times people wore snow in their hair.

"Not snow," Achilles corrected. "Powdered wigs. It's a sign of office usually. And _stop staring_."

"Sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton said again, trying to lower his eyes but unable to do so.

They moved about the streets and Ratonhnhaké:ton felt he could walk the streets for days and not know even half its wonders.

Dark skin caught his eye and he looked to see a series of people who looked like Achilles being lead up to a platform of some kind, people crowded around and shouting things so quickly that the young teen could not understand what was going on. He turned to see the Old Man leveling a long, hard stare, his normally sour face replaced with something much darker before looking away without even a word, radiating the message that Ratonhnhaké:ton not ask what he had just seen.

It was late afternoon by the time they had at last arrived.

"Now, Connor," Achilles said, turning but Ratonhnhaké:ton was turned around, watching a woman holding something over her head and trying to determine what it was, what the word was. "Connor," Achilles tried again, and Ratonhnhaké:ton looked around to see whom the old man was referring to.

Then the cane snapped over his head. "_Connor._"

Oh. Right.

"Sorry," he said, wincing and rubbing the sore spot on his head. He needed to work on his eagle to prevent that from always happening.

"Connor," Achilles said again, hoping repetition would drill the name into Ratonhnhaké:ton's – into _Connor's_ head. "Do you see that building there?" he asked, pointing to a massive building of brick and white trim, "That is the State House. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," Ra—Connor said.

"Good. You are to tell the supplier that the wagon is by the State House. You're to buy the items on this list. Tell them where the carriage is - and they'll see that's it loaded. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. Look for a sign that says 'General Store.' It will be near the water. I've done business there before; tell them that you're my new apprentice and that the wagon is by the State House. Can you remember all of that?"

"_Yes_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, insulted by all of the reminders.

"Good. Keep your eyes and your ears open. Gossip is a great source of information. If you can survive something as simple as this supply run, there just might be hope for you. Go on, now."

Ratonhnhaké:ton clenched his jaw, put out by the Old Man's lack of faith in him, but he hopped easily off the wagon and began his task. As time grew on, however, he began to realize how difficult it was because of how little information Achilles had given him. How was he to know what was a store and what was not? Who did he ask, or was that too obvious? Would someone learn he was not a European if he asked how to determine what a store was? He pulled the borrowed, ill-fitted coat Achilles had given him around his broad shoulders and took a deep breath of cold air. He could do this; he could figure out where to go. He stood still, telling himself over and over again, mentally preparing himself for his assignment, until the anxiety in his chest slowly bled away.

Focused now, he thought he heard a faint eagle shriek, in the echoes of his mind.

Calmer, he opened his eyes and looked around. Achilles had said something about a sign, and there were no signs on the street he was on. The Old Man had also spoken of being by the water, and he did not see the ocean immediately. Those two conditions needed to be met, first. Taking a deep breath, he slowly walked east, rubbing his hands together in the cold and darting his eyes everywhere. In the span of ten minutes he realized he could recognize the difference between a shop and the other buildings; shops had glass windows that showed off their products and painted signs. That gave him a smidgen of confidence, and when he began seeing the ocean between buildings he focused his eyes more.

As he looked for a sign that said "General Store," he listened to a conversation going on with a collection of men at a corner.

"Can you believe it? That customs man killed a little boy! He was only eleven. The soldiers have been here two years, and I don't care if half the forces left last year, they're nothing but a menace."

"If I find a lobsterback alone I'll give him a piece of my mind."

"Did you read the latest _Journal of Occurences_? Another trooper raped a girl. No one's been arrested."

"I don't read that rag, for a 'factual' paper it's a load of malarkey."

"I grow tired of this. It seems every day a new tax is levied - a new rule enforced - without our consent! The Revenue Act. The Indemnity Act. The Commissioners of Customs Act. Oh, Chancellor Townshend must have thought himself so clever when he papered these thefts and made them law. But the Constitution says we've a right to refuse! That there will be no taxation without representation! Tell me - who represented us in Parliament? Spoke on our behalf? Signed in our stead? Give me a name! Only you can't! And do you know why? You can't tell me who represented us because nobody did!"

"And why do we have to pay for the war anyway? It was British Troops that fought the French and Indians, they wouldn't _let_ our militia do anything. We were ignored and wiped away when there was war, but _suddenly_ the king remembers us when the bill comes due? How is that fair?"

"I've been reading from that man Adams. The more I read the more it makes sense."

"Don't tell me you fancy yourself a Son of Liberty? They're nothing more than radicals!"

"Ah, but they've been right, haven't they? Doesn't that give them merit to listen to what they have to say?"

"_They're_ the ones that sacked Hutchinson's house. I'm surprised he accepted the governorship after that."

"You can't blame him for everything. We were _all_ rioting when the Stamp Act came down. And Sam Adams wanted legitimate resistance, not mobs; he was the one that organized the boycotts, he's the one who created the petitions. He's a reformer, not a radical."

"Says you."

"What are you, a Tory? Are you going to forgive the king for every policy he institutes with a bland wave of his hand without any say so from us? How is that fair?"

"I'm not saying it's _fair..._"

Ratonhnhaké:ton understood the words, he followed the conversation, but he did not _understand_ it. Was this the shock of culture Achilles spoke of? Regardless, he had found a shop labeled "General Store," and he stepped in.

Inside were shelves upon shelves of material, metal objects that Ratonhnhaké:ton could not imagine the use of, bags of things, jars of others, muskets stacked neatly on a rack that terrified him; he felt anxiety again, and he looked around, trying to figure out what to do next.

"You lost?"

He turned to see a man, broad shoulders and weathered face, stand behind a tall counter.

Ah... what was the next instruction?

"My name is Ra—My name is Connor," he said. "I am a new apprentice of Achilles Davenport."

"Ah!" the man said, his face brightening. "About time the old man took on new help. I was beginning to think he'd sworn off farmhands all together after his leg was injured. He needs the help at his age. You here to resupply?"

"Yes," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I need the items on this list." He handed over the paper.

"Will you be paying with coin or trade?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out the bag of coins the old man had given him and dumped them on the counter.

The man stared openly, before taking his hands and shoving the coins into a pile. "Are you a simpleton?" he asked, incredulous. Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard the word _simpleton_ before. Did it have something to do with the word _simple_? "No self-respecting trader shows exactly how much money he has with another trader!" He sighed, spinning the list around and studying it. "Some of these things I have. Some I don't. Lumber's hard to come by since my supplier up and vanished. Redcoats billeted his house I'm told. I have the tools and pitch, though. Nails too. I can give you the foodstuffs now. Where do you want this delivered?" Slowly, he pulled out coins from the pile, shifting back and forth until he had the right amount.

"Our wagon is near the State House," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, taking the remaining coins and putting them back in the pouch. He tucked it inside his coat. "Is there anything more that you need of me?"

"By God, no," the man said. "A boy green as you is likely to get killed by the end of the year. You can tell the Old Man I wish him good luck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, another heavy, heavy, HEAVY exposition dump in this chapter. (It will die down eventually, we promise...) There's not much to say as yet for Ratonhnhake:ton because we're following the game pretty lock-step at this point. This is Ratonhnhake:ton as his most naive, struggling to learn about the intricacies of white culture and understand the suddenly huge world that he's a part of. It doubles not only as exposition for Ratonhnhake:ton but also for readers to learn of Ratonhnhake:ton's mindset. He references Kanien'keha:ka culture in outlining his ideals and lifestyle in juxtaposition of the white world. Most of it is either explained in text or in that last chapter and its author's notes.
> 
> Two things might have slipped by though: First. Even Ratonhnhake:ton doesn't realize it, but both William Johnson and Charles Lee were mentioned in this chapter by their Haudenosaunee names. (props to anyone who noticed them!). Second: Mourning Wars. Part of the Haudenosaunee tradition was to, when a child was killed, recoup the loss by taking a child of the enemy tribe. It is believed that this is part of the reason the Haudenosaunee survived so long and were so hearty, they were constantly integrating fresh blood from other tribes. It was obviously considered kidnapping in European circles and a source of much trouble over the years.
> 
> We're also starting to dip into the politics of the day. The eleven-year-old that died in the Boston Gazette is widely considered the spark that started, er, well, events next chapter, and the reader, as well as Ratonhnhake:ton, is a little lost as to what all these fights are. Oh, Americans will recognize names like Tories and Chancellor Townshed, and maybe even Royal Governor Hutchinson, but not with the depth necessary to know what's coming up. More on politics in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, though Ratonhnhake:ton doesn't recognize it, he also witnessed a slave auction. As much as we New Englanders pride ourselves in not being racist, that's not completely true. We had slaves and slave auctions just as much as the South; it was only that slavery was not economically sound in the north, because New England farmland couldn't feasibly spread out into giant plantations like the South. Our winters are longer and way colder, and New England was better suited for industry: ship making, factories, etc.
> 
> And, as a recurring theme, because Achilles says that Ratonhnhake:ton can pass as Spanish or Italian, he won't always be recognized as a Native American. And now he has a sparkly European name: Connor. Wonder how long it will take for him to get used to it...
> 
> Next chapter: Blood in March snow, aka seeing Haytham Kenway for the first time. I'm sure this will go well.


	6. Politics of Freedom

Outside a cold wind had whipped up, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear bells ringing, another sound he hadn't heard before and needed to catalogue. He backtracked slowly through thicker and thicker crowds, making his way to the State House.

"It's King Street!" someone was saying.

"A fire?"

"I don't know. We need to go see if they need help."

"Who stands in Parliament for Boston? For New York? For Virginia? No one! But Old Sarum is represented. And Newport and Newtown. Seaford and Saltash. The list goes on. Rotten boroughs one and all. What is to become of the rights of Englishmen? Are we not entitled to have a say in our governance? Who are they to silence our voices? To insist we be represented by strangers?"

"Have you forgotten the Stamp Act and how we responded? We spoke up! We resisted! So they stood down! We were heard and it was repealed! But now... Now too many are silent."

"Or worse - they excuse it! The taxes are not so high, they say. The money is put to good use, they say. Fie, I say! Fie we should _all_ say! Though the taxes may be small, they were enacted and enforced without our consent. As to their use? They pay governors and judges! And if Britain pays them, it's Britain whom they are beholden, not us! Do none see the danger here?"

"It's not a fire. It's a mob."

"The regulars, they've got loaded muskets. Hell's about to rain down!"

The mood of the people was strange, angry, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand why. He returned to the wagon and the massive brick and white building called the State House and looked to the old man.

"What happened?" he asked.

Achilles was already off the wagon and moving down the street. "That's what we're going to find out," he replied. "Follow me."

People were running down the streets at different clips; Achilles had no hope of matching that pace but limped along with adequate speed. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nearly vibrating with confusion. The cluster of bodies began to press against each other, and Ratonhnhaké:ton began to make out individual comments.

"Shoot!"

"Come on, ya lobsterback! Fire! _Fire_!"

Beyond the crowd was another brick and white trimmed building, a series of men in bright red coats holding muskets. He looked to Achilles, and all he said was, "British soldiers; men trained to fight battles. They've been here for two years, keeping the peace."

"Then why is everyone shouting?"

"That boy who was killed last week in the _Gazette_? The alleged killer was a customs employee, and that," he gestured with his cane, "is the Customs House. I suspect the crowds have been looking for a target for days, and now we have this. Look," he added.

Through the throngs of people, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw a face he had seen in the paintings in the root cellar: the tricorn had, the rich cape, the stone blue. This was the head of the _atenenyarhu_, the Templars. It was not Charles Lee, but rather the man labeled as Grandmaster. He was speaking to a man in a grey goat. Was it really...?

"Is that..." he took a breath, too many emotions beginning to fuel him he could not process it all. "... my father?" He had never imagined actually meeting him; he knew so little about him, knew only that he had hurt his _ista_ in some way. Now he knew that he was the leader of the _atenenyarhu_, commanded the Stone Coat Charles Lee, was responsible for his mother's death. He... he looked like Ratonhnhaké:ton, same nose and chin. His skin was pale, like Ratonhnhaké:ton's. This was not how he expected to see him, he had _never_ expected to see him, and to see him across the way filled with men shouting and cursing... This was not how it was supposed to be, but Ratonhnhaké:ton had no idea what he had even expected.

"Yes," Achilles was saying, "Which means trouble is sure to follow. I need you to tail his accomplice; this crowd is a powder keg – we can't allow them to light the fuse."

"But..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say, uncertain what would come out of his mouth but needing to say something.

"But nothing!" the Old Man hissed. "Do as I say and _go_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton did so. The grey coat ducked into an ally and Ratonhnhaké:ton followed.

"I say again: disperse!" one of the men in red coats said, his clothes were slightly different from the others, marking him as a leader. "Congregating in this manner is forbidden!"

"We're not going anywhere, bug!"

"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?!"

"No good can come of this chaos!" said the leader of the redcoats. "Return to your homes and all will be forgiven!"

"Never!"

"Not until you've answered for your crimes!"

"You're right cowards, pointing guns at unarmed folk! Why don't you shoot and see what happens!"

"You don't scare us!"

"We ain't afraid!"

The voices faded into general shouts of displeasure, and slowly they faded all together as Ratonhnhaké:ton tuned them out, his focus narrowing to just the grey coat, moving shiftily down an alley. A thrill shuddered down Ratonhnhaké:ton's back; he had only been training for five, six months. He was not _nearly_ ready to do something like this. What did the old man expect him to do? What did _Ratonhnhaké:ton_ expect to do? He had no idea what to expect from this venture, the nervous energy made him shake with anticipation. Of what, he could not say.

The grey coat turned from the alley and ducked between two houses. Beyond were some people, trying to get away from the crowds, talking about what was going on and what should be done. The grey coat climbed a ladder, and after a moment Ratonhnhaké:ton did the same, the seams of his borrowed coat stretching to the point of ripping as he made his way to the stiff slant of the shingled roof. Footprints were in the snow and Ratonhnhaké:ton's heart thumped loudly in his chest as he followed it, seeing the grey coat take aim with a musket. Where was he going to fire?

… Wait, he was going to _fire_? _Into this crowd?_

Ratonhnhaké:ton's eagle spirit shrieked violently, awakening in his mind and showing him just what it was that Achilles saw: none of the citizens were armed, angry though they were, but the redcoats had muskets and therefore the power to kill the angry people that were harassing them. Ratonhnhaké:ton's father's plan, Haytham Kenway's plan, was to goad the redcoats into firing into the crowd. But... Why? What was to be gained by that?

No, that question was not important.

Haytham Kenway had ordered this man to kill someone, and _that_ had to be stopped. Ratonhnhaké:ton would not allow an _atenenyarhu_ to eat someone, not if he could stop it.

Heart pounding, breath heavy, nerves on fire from fear, he ran on silent feet to the grey – no, the Stone Coat and grabbed him, one hand on the shoulder and the other around the musket and yanked him back, shoving him into the roof and landing on him as the evil spirit began to slide in the snow. Ratonhnhaké:ton wrestled for grip briefly before getting the musket and tossing it over the edge of the roof.

That... that was easy.

A small, surprised smile bled onto his face as he realized his success. He did it! _He did it!_ The training had paid off! He could do this!

He leaned forward, face once more controlled, and pulled out his _tamahac_, pressing it to the grey coat's neck. "Your plot has ended," he said.

The grey coat smiled. "Not quite," he replied, and with an unexpected shove Ratonhnhaké:ton was sliding along the snowy precipice of the roof, scrambling for purchase as the man ran back the way he'd come. Finally stopping his fall, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked out over the crowd, his eagle still shrieking in his mind, and his eyes snapped to another man, another grey coat, in the crowd packing snow around a rock before throwing it. In horror, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked back to the soldiers, where the leader was talking to a man with a cudgel.

"Are the muskets loaded?"

"They are, sir, but no one will fire unless I order it; and I assure you I have no intention of ordering it."

The rock-laden snowball impacted on one of the redcoats head, knocking him into the snow to the riotous laugh of the crowd. The private scrambled to his feet, picking up his musket; his face was red with fury.

"Damn you, fire!" the soldier said, and lifted his musket to fire.

In horror, silence descended on Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears as the world seemed to still; the man speaking to the leader raised his cudgel to swing at the irate redcoat, striking at the hands to make the private drop his weapon before turning to the leader, and suddenly the soldiers had both an order and the desire to protect their leader.

An uneven volley was fired into the crowd, and soon everyone was running, shouting, cursing. Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned over the edge of the roof, seeing three bodies and blood in the snow, others being dragged away in a panic, some limping away. Blood was everywhere.

He... he had failed.

Haytham Kenway was nowhere to be seen.

He had failed.

The _atenenyarhu_ who had thrown the rock was gone, as was the shooter Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought he stopped.

_He had failed_.

The streets descended to chaos after that. Ratonhnhaké:ton was swept away with the crowds almost as soon as he touched down, people crying and cursing, some covered with blood and shouting for a doctor, and others trying to go back to the custom house, trying to learn what had happened.

"Did they order it? Did they truly order to fire on unarmed civilians?"

"How can they fire on us? What right did they have?"

"They must be hung for this!"

"Where are they? They need to be arrested!"

"Somebody get the governor!"

"Like _he'll_ do anything!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton searched for Achilles, feeling acutely alone in an angry crowd that he did not understand. The sense of breathless wonder and amazement was swept away with fear; raw, poorly controlled fear as he realized he was alone in a city he did not know or understand and had no idea how to go home because his home was in a valley days and days away and he could not return until the Stone Coats were defeated and he had _failed to do so_ and now there was blood on his hands for his failure and where was Achilles he needed to find Achilles but would the old man even talk to him after this would he even train him after this catastrophic failure? What was he supposed to do? _What was he supposed to do?_

Ratonhnhaké:ton ran through the streets with the others until he found a barrel and a corner, crouching down and hiding, breathing in ragged pants, trying to practice stillness, trying to bring himself under control, trying to ask the eagle of his spirit what he had to do next. The chill of the snow was invisible to him, as was the sharp wind of the evening, all he could focus on was his own mind and trying to bring it back to a semblance of thought before the anxiety in his chest threatened to break him into little pieces.

"Connor? Connor! Connor Davenport, apprentice of Achilles Davenport!"

Achilles?

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, startled to hear the old man's name, and shakily go to his feet. If the person calling out that name knew Achilles, perhaps he knew where the old man was.

A man in a blue coat, sagged features, saw Ratonhnhaké:ton approach. "Are you Connor? Connor Davenport, apprentice of Achilles?"

Connor? Oh!

"Yes," he said softly. Still shaking.

"Good. Come with me if you want to live through the night. God save us they were ordered to fire on _unarmed civilians_, who knows what they'll do next. Come with me, boy!"

Numbly, Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, grateful to be in the presence of a man who seemed to be concerned about his safety. "Where is Achilles?" he asked. "And what is your name?"

"Oh, do forgive me," the man said. "Formalities are so often forgotten in the face of brutal and unwarranted violence. I'm Samuel Adams, Boston assemblyman, call me Sam."

Assemblyman? Ratonhnhaké:ton would ask later. For almost an hour he followed the man named Sam, flitting from one place to the next, asking if people had heard what had happened, asking for details from those who did, asking questions that mostly whistled right over Ratonhnhaké:ton's head; as the evening pressed on he began to wonder when this man, Sam, would take him to Achilles, but the fervor in which the man walked from person to person, seemingly tireless as evening waned to night, made him hesitant to ask. At last, however, they stopped at a shop that had Adams' name on it, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stood in a corner, not wanting to interrupt yet another conversation but having nowhere else to go.

"Cousin!" Sam said.

"Sam," another man, clearly family, said.

"Do you know what's happened?"

"I heard the church bells, I thought there was a fire. There was blood in the snow!"

"British regulars fired into a crowd, cousin; it's unspeakable! I've heard there's four dead, more wounded. The presses will be afire about this; we need to make sure the right message get to London: Captain Thomas Preston of His Majesty's Twenty-Ninth Regiment orders indiscriminate fire onto an innocent group of young boys."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. That was not what happened. "It was not the leader who gave the order," he said softly.

Both men turned, Sam's cousin noticing Ratonhnhaké:ton for the first time. "What?" he asked.

"It was not the leader," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "The leader was the one talking to the man, yes? It was the one that fell that gave the order. And they were not all young boys; there was shouting and-"

"I know all that," Sam said, adjusting his blue coat. "But the fact remains those regulars fired into the crowd when they were supposed to be here to keep the peace. Keep the peace! For two years they've been nothing but a source of inflammation! It was only a matter of time before something like this happened and now that it has-"

"Sam," his cousin said, eyes narrow. "Did you... arrange this?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, startled at the accusation. Sam's cousin was standing at his desk, his face blocked off and cool, leaning back from Sam's fervor. Sam was also startled, his form half frozen in gesticulation.

"I most certainly did _not!_" Sam hissed, the outburst surprising everyone.

"Sam..."

"No, John, I know," he said, the energy draining out of him. He sank into a chair. "I know how I look to others. I know the kind of man I am; I'm not the innocent youth I was. None of us are. I know how deeply you value the law John, in truth I can think of no one who values it more: the law of God, the law of the king, and the law of the colony. Whether you believe it or not, _I_ believe in the law, too. I've read our charter backwards and forwards, I've done everything in my power to try and change how things are done in Parliament. You've seen the petitions, the organizations, the letters."

"Your pamphlets."

"Cousin, what else am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, wary. "I believed in reforms, I believed there was a path through all of this, but the minute those soldiers landed I realized the truth. England doesn't see us as equal participants in their empire, they don't even see us as equal citizens. There is a hierarchy in this empire: and people born and raised in England are at the top of the chain. Then come we colonists, then the foreigners like the Dutch and the Germans, then the Indians, and then the slaves, and so on down the line until everyone is categorized according to their worth. I've tried, _we've_ tried, to change that. The protests for the Stamp Act got out of hand, but we did well with the Townshed Acts, we've proven we can make our voices heard, and I thought that if we were just _loud_ enough..."

"And now?" the cousin, John asked.

Sam held his head in his hands. "There's no hope," he said softly, quietly. He looked up, his eyes fiery again. "England will never see us as anything but second class citizens, just like the Irish and the Welsh and the Scots. They see us a little more than children, to be spanked when we act up and scolded when we actually catch their attention. We're supposed to be seen and not heard, are supposed to be grateful as they levy tax after tax and act after tax and act without our consent. Do you know what the great irony is? If we colonies had been allowed to debate the issue, debate the taxes and litigate like we were supposed to, if we had been allowed to do that we probably would have _accepted_ the taxes. But they didn't do that. They just levy what they want, wave their hands and expect us to comply. And the worst of it, the _worst_ of it, is that we are getting used to the abuses. The taxes aren't all that much, we still buy the tea, the soldiers have been here for _two years_, and we've grown accustomed to them being here, consider it _normal_. I will do anything, _anything_ in my power to remind the people that normal life for them is a life of abuse."

The words at last ran out, Sam sagged back into the chair. The pause hung over the air, lingering, before he took another breath. "I've never been a good man, John, I know that. But you give me far too much credit to think I'm somehow in charge of _mobs_. No, John, this is a disaster. England could take this as an excuse and yank those soldiers back to England for trial, they might not trust us to follow the law. That's why I'm here. The trial needs to be held here, in the colonies; we need to show England that they can fire into our citizens – a treasonous act if it happened in London – and we will still adhere to the law. John, I can think of no other man to represent these soldiers in the trial but you."

John blinked, slowly, and Ratonhnhaké:ton felt something churning in the air.

"I still don't agree with you," John said. "I don't agree with your methods. But, like you said, I adhere to the law. I've already had someone to ask that I represent them. I've agreed."

"I see. Thank you, John."

"Don't thank me, Sam, I'm doing my job."

"As you wish, Cousin." Sam stood, adjusting his blue coat and moving to the door. He paused, turning back. "Thank you," he said softly, before his eyes flicked to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Come on, Connor. There's still much work to do."

Ratonhnhaké:-Connor gave one last look to the cousin, John Adams, and followed Sam back out into the cold. They walked in silence for a time, Sam lost in his own thoughts and Ra—Connor wondering what had just happened. He wished Achilles was here, the man had a way of sensing his questions and answering them before he even opened his mouth. Why had Sam not taken the teen to him yet?

Their next stop was to a building that housed a contraption Ratonhnhaké:-Connor had never seen before and could not guess. Sam spoke with the man who operated it, and after an hour's worth of work a sheet of paper came out, and Sam handed it over to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

_Massacre on King Street!_

_Doubtless our readers know that on the evening of Monday last, a squadron of soldiers formed before the Custom House fired into a crowd of citizens, killing four and wounding many. Our readers will expect a circumstantial account of the tragic affair; but we hope they will excuse our being particularly cautious as we should be, had we not seen that the town was intending an enquiry and full representation thereof. However, some few facts appear to be established._

_Following upon an altercation between some harmless lads of the town and a single posted guard at the Custom House, an increasing number of citizens came to that place with heat shouted down the guard. In like manner, a large group of citizens gathered in King Street. Capt. Thomas Preston perceived from the Main Guard House his soldier in distress and left the Main Guard with a party of men with charged bayonets. The soldiers came, pushing their bayonets, crying, make way! They took place by the Custom House by brutal force, and, continuing to push to drive people off pricked some in several places, on which they were clamorous and, it is said, threw snow balls and, perhaps, portions of ice. The crowd tried to reason with the soldiers, shouting "You dare not fire!" On this, and more snowballs coming, someone cried out, "Damn you, fire!" One soldier then fired, and a townsman with a cudgel struck him over the hands with such force that he dropped his firelock, and, rushing forward, aimed a blow at the Captain's head which grazed his hat and fell pretty heavy upon his arm. With such a minor encounter the soldiers continued the fire successively till seven or eight or, as some say, eleven guns were discharged. The Captain supported the decision, repeating the order to fire at unarmed civilians in one bloody massacre._

_By this fatal maneuver three men were laid dead on the spot and two more struggling for life; but what showed a degree of cruelty unknown to British troops, at least since the house of Hanover had directed their operation, was an attempt to fire upon or push with their bayonets the persons who undertook to remove the slain and wounded!_

_The dead are -_

_Mr. Samuel Gray, killed on the spot, the ball entering his head and beating off large portion of his skull._

_A mulatto man named Crispus Attucks, also killed instantly, two balls entering his breast, one of them in special goring the right lobe of the lungs and a great part of the liver most horribly._

_Mr. James Caldwell, mate of Capt. Morton's vessel, in like manner killed by two balls entering his back._

_Mr. Samuel Maverick, a promising youth of seventeen years of age, son of the widow Maverick, and an apprentice to Mr. Greenwood, ivory-turner; a ball went through his belly and was cut out at his back. He died the next morning._

_Mr. Patrick Carr, about thirty years of age, who worked with Mr. Field, leather breeches-maker in Queen Street, wounded, a ball entered near his hip and went out at his side. Apprehended he will die._

_And several others requiring surgery, suffering loss of blood, shattered bones and lodged musket-balls._

_Governor Hutchinson has exerted himself in an effort to quell the town. He has ordered the arrest of said Captain Preston as well as the soldiers involved until such time as an investigation and general ordering of the facts can be made._

"So," Sam said suddenly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Now you've had a chance to see how it all works. Untoward actions will upset the citizens and inevitably lead to problems. After the problems, it is a race to see which side gets the people's eye first. What do you think?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up after reading the pamphlet. "This feels wrong. Why not just speak to someone and explain what happened?"

"You can't be serious?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"You seek to counter one lie with another. Words on paper instantly taken as truth. And all of it without question. Is it not, then, more responsible to print only the truth?"

Fire burned in Sam's eyes. "_They_ loosed this beast! Or have you forgotten?"

"There must be another way. Something more honest."

Sam was angry now. "Well, when you find it, let me know. But until then, we sculpt with the clay we have!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, had already seen how loud the man could get when confronted with a voice that disagreed with him, even his own cousin. He was quick to be conciliatory. "My apologies," he said. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful. You have kept me safe through this night."

"Quite alright," Sam said after a breath. "I was much the same at your age. You'll grow out of it in time."

"And if I do not?" Ra—Connor asked, disliking the idea of growing out of _being honest._ "If I refuse?"

"Then you'll likely wind up dead."

The thought stayed with Connor all through the rest of the night, until at last Sam stopped at a nondescript house. "There's to be a meeting at Faneuil Hall, Governor Hutchinson is likely to be there. I've dragged you about enough; you'll rest here with Elizabeth and Surry. I should be home some time this afternoon, and I intend to sleep like the dead after that. We'll talk tomorrow."

Elizabeth, Ratonhnhaké:ton learned, was Sam's wife, and Surry was a woman of Achilles' skin tone. Little was said, Raton—Connor had been up for over twenty-four grueling hours, and had been dragged around for the last five; it was dawn and the women were only just waking up. Sam whispered a few words to his wife before leaving, and Ratonhnhaké:ton collapsed into a bed and knew little else after that.

* * *

He awoke in the late morning, Surry serving him a light breakfast, and he quietly thanked her for the favor.

"No need for thanks," she said gently. "I'm the servant of the house; it's my job."

"I do not know that word, _servant_."

"It means I earn my pay by keeping the Adams house."

"One can earn a living that way?" Ratonhnhaké:ton – no, _Connor_, he had to get used to that – asked.

Surry's smile saddened. "Not everyone," she said. "But I'm grateful to the Adams's for what they've done."

Ratonhnhaké:-Connor did not understand, and he asked at lunch what Surry meant.

Elizabeth smiled. "I see what Sam meant about you being naïve," she said, not unkindly. "You are new to the colonies?"

"... Yes."

"Have you heard the word _slavery_ before?"

He shook his head.

And that began his learning of the dark truths of the colonies. The veiled comments from the Old Man now made sense, and he understood why it was better to be thought a Spaniard instead of a native: natives were savages and slaves were... _slaves_. The concept was utterly foreign to Ratonhnhaké:ton, he spent much of the afternoon pressing and pressing on what it meant, asking questions that proved to be uncomfortable for both women, but they answered softly and as thoroughly as they could, until Ratonhnhaké:ton was so horrified that he simply disappeared to his room, looking out through his window to the busy streets with new eyes, realizing that skin color was as valued a commodity as land or children. How could the colonists measure everything by coin? Why was money so overwhelmingly powerful? He had no answers, and he wished Achilles was there to explain it all. Anxiety pulled at his chest, and he kept to his room for the rest of the day, having a restless sleep that night.

The next day, March 8th was the funeral for the four dead victims; everyone showed up, including Connor and Sam Adams. The young teen looked at the coffins and offered silent apologies for his failure. Many speeches, called eulogies, were given, the bereaved were offered condolences, and many, _many_, people asked Sam what was to be done.

"I cannot emphasize enough the danger this poses," Sam said. "If the trial isn't fair, if it isn't held here in the colonies, then our freedom as we know it is doomed. I've been told my cousin John Adams is going to defend him."

"His loyalties have been _bought_ then!"

"No, he's doing his sacred duty. Imagine what would happen if a lopsided trial occurred here," Sam corrected. "No, the trial needs to be fair, we as colonists show that we will adhere to the law even when the British themselves don't uphold to it. Think of the message that will send to England, to the other colonies, to all of Europe. We must show them that we are a rational, law-abiding people, it enhances our message that we are concerned for the different acts and legislation thrown at us because we are concerned from a legal perspective. If we ever degrade ourselves to a mindless mob then we are feeding into the perception that we are little more than children who need a firm hand. The last thing we want is another punishment from Parliament."

"But-"

"No buts, it doesn't matter that the soldiers fired first, we have to maintain our image. We have to appear honorable and right, or else we'll get _nowhere_."

"But we'll never _get_ anywhere if they keep allowing abuses like this."

"No, we have to wait. The people are angry now, that's good, we have to make sure they remember that, it needs to stick in their brains, burrow and dig until the next right is stripped away – and it will be stripped away, _that_ I can guarantee. And they will remember. The weight of what England is doing will eventually break the people, and we have to wait until then."

Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, did not understand everything – he was still waiting for Achilles to arrive and take him back, and it wasn't until the next day that he and Sam had an opportunity to talk.

"Achilles said you were his new apprentice," Sam said, taking off the object on his nose, _glasses_, and rubbing his eyes. "We've been writing letters to each other for years, since '64. He said you needed an education in colonial politics, and he suggested I might be the man for the job. I confess I'm slightly surprised, he always struck me as a moderate, not a radical like me – and yes, I'm acutely aware that I'm a radical these days – and I don't know how good a teacher I am, but I'd be happy to help him in whatever way I can."

And, for the next week, Connor received a new form of education. He learned that the colonies were unique in that they were separated from the English empire by an entire ocean; it took upwards of three months for word to go back and forth – sometimes more depending on the weather. Each of the thirteen colonies had a charter, some of which predated the current Parliament, and that each charter gave a basic explanation of government. Some charters had been given up – indeed all but Massachusetts' charter – for royal governorship. From the charter, for example, it was known that colonies could elect their own bodies to govern themselves; colonies elected regional governors that lead the governments; it was also in the charter that the colonies could tax themselves for revenue. All of those words were foreign to Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, and Sam laughed genially before explaining: taxes were small additions to the price of goods and trade, and those additions were collected into a pile that was used to pay the salaries of the elected officials and other parts of government. Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly equated the elected officials to _roiá__:ner_, clan chief, only instead of _oiá:ner_ deciding who would be chief, the entire community of the tribe did.

He did not, however, understand a _roiá:ner_ being paid for doing his duty. Sam had to explain that all items in the colonies were bought and traded for. Cities like Boston were so large that it was not necessary for all men to be hunters and all women to be planters, men could specialize in specific tasks, such as assemblymen, or lawyers, or printers. Such people could not trade for their food and comforts because their jobs did not produce something that could be held in one's hands. Instead, they were paid for their services and used the money to acquire what they needed to live. Society as large as the British Empire was necessarily complex. "It is much like your Iroquois nation," Sam said. "I don't pretend to know the details, but you send your chiefs to debate issues and create laws that govern your people, if they specialized in that, then they would not hunt for their own food."

"Then we would share it," Connor replied.

"Perhaps you would, but some men here are not so generous with their wares."

Then came the complexities that had occurred in recent years. Six years ago in 1764, the Sugar Act was passed, an extra tax on colonial sugar. It wouldn't have mattered much, except the decision was made without colonial consent, since the colonies had no representative in Parliament; only the colonial governments themselves could tax themselves. The next year was the Stamp Act, a tax on _all_ printed goods, hitting colonists in almost all facets of their lives. The colonies were deeply bothered that they were shelling out this extra money – that they had no say in – and the effect it might have on coin that was held onto so dearly. The colonies, in reaction, had passed a set of resolves agreeing that the tax was bad for British economy. Boston had reacted particularly badly to the act; they hanged the stamp distributor and had wrecked the then-lieutenant governor Hutchinson's house, riots were everywhere. Sam explained that he organized legal methods of resistance: boycotts, petitions, protests, but that anger in such masses often dissolved to mobs. On reflection, it put the colonies in a bad light that they were never able to get out from under. Sam had been elected to the Boston assembly that year.

The Stamp Act went into effect but was eventually repealed the next year, proving that the voices of the massed colonies could create an effect in England. But two years later in 1767, Lord Townshed passed a series of taxation laws meant to milk the colony for money: taxes on imported goods and the creation of a British appointed customs agency to enforce the taxes, and most damning of all: the governors and judges were to be paid independent of colonial control. Sam had organized a colony wide boycott of British goods, the idea being that the power of the purse would push for repeal, but people enjoyed their British goods and it never came into full affect. The Massachusetts House sent a letter to King George begging help, and Sam tried to get a petition sent as well, the Massachusetts Circular Letter, but the colonial governors were told that their very assemblies would be dissolved if they signed onto the petition, and Massachusetts was told specifically to rescind the letter.

"We were doing our jobs as lawful members of the British empire," Sam explained, "and in return our very governments were threatened to be dissolved. That was perhaps the first time I began to realize there were deeper problems in London."

The Customs Board was unable to enforce the trade regulations because of the various demonstrations and acts done by Sam and his associates, and they asked the _military_ for aid. The warships arrived in May of '68. The ships tried to impress local ships; they tried to take John Hancock's ship (another name in a long slew that Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know...) and the following riot lasted for days. The Customs people retreated to Castle William, an island in the harbor for safety, and the king sent four regiments to occupy Boston and keep the peace. Massachusetts assembly decided to _not_ rescind the Circular Letter in light of the events because they had the right to petition. On top of that Sam circulated a new petition to remove Governor Hutchinson. The governor, in response, summarily dissolved the legislature. The legislature met in spite of that, and over one hundred towns had joined in to try and figure out what to do. They issued a letter to explain that Boston wasn't lawless, the soldiers weren't necessary, and begged Hutchinson not to go against the natural, constitutional, and charter right of the people.

"And then the soldiers arrived," Sam said, leaning back in his chair. "That was two years ago. I've been doing everything I can to reverse the damage ever since. We got half the force to leave last year, but it was only a matter of time before there was blood." He rubbed his face. "There's still a part of me that thinks, 'If we just send one more petition, if we send one more letter of resolves, if we tried to explain the charter just once more, then all of this can be fixed.'" He sighed, rubbing his face again. "Things have been slowly degrading for six years; I'm not sure there _isn't_ a solution that involves blood. I had hoped not, but..."

"I am sorry you are so troubled," Conner said softly. He could see why Achilles had asked this man, Sam, to explain colonial politics to him. Pushing fifty, he burned with passion for the topics he discussed, he was excited to explain and answer every question. He assumed Ratonhnhaké:ton knew many things, and when he learned he didn't he had the patience to backtrack and try again. Sam had a deep belief in the people and the right for the people to govern themselves, to argue and issue over and over until a solution was reached – something that Ratonhnhaké:ton as a Haudenosaunee agreed to with every fiber of his being. Conner respected this man, enjoyed his energy and fervor.

But he could _not_ understand why Achilles had just _left_ him in the middle of the massacre.

By the time the city had quieted (slightly), Ratonhnhaké:ton felt as though he had a year's worth of learning under his belt, and no small amount of resentment for when he finally returned to the homestead.

The supplies that had been ordered were ready, and Connor went tentatively aboard the ship that carried them and set sail for a place called Cape Ann, which in fact was where the Davenport homestead was situated. The three day wagon journey was completed in a morning, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to explain that the, "bloated whale of a ship's corpse!" had been in the bay since he had arrived, and no, he had no idea where it had come from, whose it was, or anything whatsoever to do with it. The captain grumbled loudly that there was no proper pier, and as they finally weighed anchor and began unloading, Ratonhnhaké:ton disembarked and all but ran up the hill to the homestead.

Sam had been an excellent teacher, but there had been one underlying thought in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind: _where was Achilles?_ When he burst into the front door of the homestead, he found the old man in his room, sitting at his desk, acting as if everything was fine.

"Welcome back," the Old Man said without so much as even looking up.

Anger burst in Connor's mind. "You _left_ me in Boston!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his voice louder than he wanted. "The crowd was so large and you gave me such an important responsibility and you _just left me!_"

The old man looked up, eyes utterly unimpressed. "Yes," he said, "I did leave you. The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is a better teacher by far. I had given you just enough information to get the supplies, and I wanted to see if you could survive the city. Instead an opportunity of a different kind presented itself, and we would have been fools to miss that chance. I read the papers. I take it you failed?"

The question brought up all his feelings from that night: his shame, his frustration, his fear of what Achilles would say. Energy seeped out of him, and he looked down at his hands, crumbling them together.

"I did stop the man you sent me after," he said softly, "But there was another."

"There always is."

"... What of my father?" he asked.

Achilles shook his head. "Into the wind, I'm afraid."

Gone? Just like that? After creating a massacre? Four people were dead! Another nearly so, and many others injured! His father... he could not just be gone. "We have to find him," Connor said, anxiety in his chest again. His father was the leader of the Templars, the _atenenyarhu_, they would eat the world whole – his village and everyone else; Haytham had _been right there_, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not managed to stop him.

"And we will," the old man assured. "_After_ the house has been repaired."

After? _After?_

"But he is out there plotting who knows what!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, voice loud again. Anxiety burned into impatience. If Haytham Kenway could so callously arrange a massacre in Boston as he had in Kanatahséton, then this menace needed to be stopped immediately, before it was too late!

Achilles was still unimpressed. He leveled a flat, uncaring stare up at the young teen.

"And what would you do when you found him?" the old man asked. "_If_ you found him? You're a boy with a few months of training. He's a man full grown who has spent decades honing his skills. You've proven you can survive a colonial city, and even do what's necessary when times are pressed, but the wealth of experience between you and he is staggering. More still, he has an entire network of associates, from Charles Lee to John Pitcairn to couriers and bankers and who knows who else. You only have yourself. Explain to me how _any_ of those facts end with a positive outcome for you?"

Connor could say nothing, pacing about the dining room, impatient and anxious and pressed, but understanding the Old Man's point. Frustrated, all he could do was look helplessly at the dark skinned man.

Achilles sighed. "If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars," he said, "you're going to need these."

Sliding a simple box with the assassin arrowhead embossed into the wood, Achilles looked away as Ratonhnhaké:ton took it. Opening it, he blinked, realizing what he was looking at. This was the weapon that Achilles spoke of so often, over and over, the main weapon of the Assassin: the hidden blade. It was an honor to receive it, to be considered worthy of it. A small, goofy grin of excited accomplishment began to bleed onto his face, and he glanced at Achilles.

"Go on," the old man said. "Before I change my mind."

Ratonhnhaké:ton took a minute to ascertain how to put them on. The rings looped around his fingers were a new sensation, he had never worn metal in such a way before. It took another minute to learn how to maneuver his wrists to flick the blades out and then back into their sheathes. He saw immediately why these were an assassin's tools, they could be completely hidden under the sleeve of any shirt or coat, and their trigger and release were nearly silent for such a silent profession as hunting people. These would also be good on the hunt, skinning animals with these would be simpler. Already his mind was creating half a dozen ways to use these practically.

He felt honored, special, to receive them. No matter how disaffected Achilles seemed to be, no matter how indifferent, the old man thought Ratonhnhaké:ton was strong enough, skilled enough, to use these. He was one step closer to completing his training, and knowing that quelled his impatience, his anxiety. He could breathe easier now.

"_Niá:wen_," he said softly.

Achilles opened his mouth to say something but it was interrupted.

"Hey!" was a muffled cry. Both Achilles and Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to look out from the study, to see one of the strange-sounding men from down by the river pounding on the glass and cupping his hands by his eyes to peer inside. "Help!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton rushed to the front door, opening it.

"Hurry!" the man said, "Sir, please! Help! He's going to die!"

"Who?" Connor asked, stepping forward already.

"There's no time! Please, come!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't hesitate. Leaving the door behind him open, as he ran forward.

The strange-sounding man huffed as he led Connor down the hill toward the river. "He fell in and is caught in some branches! I can't reach him!"

While Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know who the "he" was, he understood the danger. "In the river?"

"Yes!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton started to strip off his deerskin shirt. March was bringing in warmer weather, and the ice on the river was breaking up. While the days were still cold, hard work would get one sweating under heavy layers, the river would still be frigid. Fabric or leathers would just prolong the cold. Connor shivered once his bare skin was bitten by the wind, but that did not matter. Safety once they were out of the water did.

"Damn it!" the man shouted. "The log must have gotten loose! Down there! He's passed under the bridge!"

The log was stuck just under the bridge, a man clinging to it desperately. "Help!" he called out, no doubt having heard the shouts approaching. "Please! Someone help!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton and the other man were heading to the bridge when a chunk of ice floated by, knocking the log and dislodging it, both floating further down with the currents starting to get swifter.

"No!"

But Connor heard nothing else as he dove right into the water, the shock of it leaving him breathless for a moment. He surfaced, pushing his hair out of his eyes and vaguely thinking that he'd needed to start pulling his hair back. The log was ahead, and the man clinging to it didn't see him.

"I am coming!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted, surging forward with powerful strokes learned from when he and his friends had went swimming in the lake near their village. The currents were swift, but not strong, the spring had not started to melt the snow into the rivers yet, and winter still held firm.

The man on the log turned his head and nearly lost his balance, the log rolling under him. Scrambling for purchase, the man was completely dunked into the cold water, before surfacing again, this time farther back from the log, having completely lost his grip. Ratonhnhaké:ton surged forward, the cold dragging at his limbs as he finally reached the man.

"I c-c-can't move..." the man was shivering and heavily scarred with a thick red beard, and Connor wrapped a heavy arm around the man's torso.

"Come," he said calmly, "we will go to shore."

The scarred man tried to help, but was too cold to get his limbs to work properly. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself was starting to shiver with the cold as he kept swimming for shore. The other man with the longer beard that bore a streak of gray had somehow kept pace with them along the shore and was already at the edge, waving them in.

Both Ratonhnhaké:ton and the scarred man were gasping as they got to the shore, the breeze of the day slicing through both of them. "W-w-we need to remove our clothes," Connor said, already reaching for his moccasins and leggings. "They will make us die."

"I don't under—"

"Hurry!"

The man with the gray streaked beard pulled out a knife and started cutting the scarred man's shirt. "We must dry off and get to a fire, quickly."

"The manor on the hill is closer," the man with the streaked beard said, hefting the scarred man's arm over his shoulder.

"W-w-warmth is imp-p-portant," Connor shivered, down to his loin cloth and wringing out his leggings. "We must h-h-hurry."

The trek up the hill was bitterly cold. The scarred man no longer had his shirt but had been oddly resistant of removing the pants or boots. This was no good. Ratonhnhaké:ton could see that his lips were blue and his skin paler than any white man he'd ever seen. The homestead was finally ahead, and Ratonhnhaké:ton ran ahead to stoke the fire in the dining room.

"Connor, is everything settle..." Achilles stared at Ratonhnhaké:ton, face almost immobile beyond the slightest widening of the eyes. "Why are you naked." It was not a question.

"Wet clothes w-would have been more harmful," Connor replied, going to the fire in the dining room. He stoked it and added two more logs. "The man in the river will need the fire and to be dry if he is to live."

"You mean you're bringing _another_ naked person into my home?"

There was a knock at the door.

Connor hurried to the door opening it. "Come, the fire is strong."

"Come on, you knob-end," the streaked bearded man said, following Ratonhnhaké:ton into the dining room. "Let's get those breeches off so you can warm yourself."

The scarred man spouted a series of stuttering curses.

The other man chuckled. "What this knob-end is trying to say is he's forever in your debt, sir."

The scarred man jerked as Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled off his boots. "Who you callin' a knob-end?"

"You. Because you are one."

"Argh!"

"Good," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, ignoring the building argument. "Less stuttering means improvement."

"I suppose I should get some of my towels and linens," Achilles mumbled. "Both of you should stay the night. I don't have any clothes to fit you, and it's getting late. Heading back in next to nothing as the temperature drops is asking for a frozen death."

"I will get the towels," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered, standing.

"Stay with them," Achilles said. "If these two start brawling in what's left of my house, you'll need to knock them both unconscious."

The two men suddenly seemed aware that they were guests, and immediately cut off the flow of angry words. Achilles smirked then started upstairs.

Connor leaned over, running his hands vigorously through his hair to shake out more water. "I will get dressed and be back shortly." He followed Achilles upstairs and went to his room, pulling out the clothes that Achilles had apparently ordered for him in Boston. The cotton shirt was soft, and the pants felt strange, stopping only at his knees. He would have preferred his deerskin leggings, but they were still damp. Once more properly dressed, he went back downstairs, barefoot, and picked up the pile of his clothes and brought them to the kitchen to lay out ahead in front of the fire. With guests, they would also need a larger meal. Perhaps now Achilles would uncover the long table in the dining room so that they might eat together.

Dinner proved awkward, as the scarred man, Terry, was wrapped in a sheet as his clothes dried by the fire in the study. The larger man with the gray streaking his beard was Godfrey, and took delight in poking Terry about his nakedness.

Both were, they claimed, good friends. Though how they could be good friends when they broke into either arguments or fights at the drop of a feather was beyond Ratonhnhaké:ton. They had been _lumberjacks_, people who cut down trees to be used for crafting. Originally, when they and emigrated from Scotland, they'd ended up settling north of Lake Champlain in a place called Quebec.

"So what brought you to my land?" Achilles asked, sipping his tea.

Both Godfrey and Terry froze. "Your land?"

"Yes. _My_ land. This whole valley and surrounding parts."

"Er," Godfrey looked embarrassed, but Terry looked angry. Conner had come to expect that Terry's natural state was angry. "We thought you only had this hill with the manor."

Terry grumbled. "Can a coon even have land?"

"I do not understand," Conner interjected. "What do raccoons have to do with owning land?"

The table fell to silence.

Terry, still flustered for eating at the table in just a sheet, and now put off by having settled on land that didn't belong to him, growled. "Not a raccoon, boy, a coon! A spade! A nigger!"

"A spade? You mean a shovel?"

"_No_," Terry growled, his bad temper growing, "a _slave_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood with such force his chair pitched backwards, anger bubbling in his chest so high his jaw tightened to contain it. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say, not knowing how to even express what he was feeling, insult and rage crackling around him after all he had learned in Boston on how a black skinned person was treated. Achilles was his mentor, his teacher, and the one who would help Ratonhnhaké:ton save his people. He did not _deserve-_

A hand the color of fresh turned earth took Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand. "Sit down, Connor."

"But-!"

"_Sit down_."

Connor turned, grabbed his chair and slammed it back onto the floor upright before dropping into it with as much anger as he could.

"Er," Godfrey and Terry were both looking awkward and uncomfortable again.

With a heavy sigh, Achilles reached into his jacket and pulled out well-worn and creased papers. He lay them out on the table between the plates with delicate care. "My papers," he said tiredly, "proving I am a free man, and have never been enslaved. Also my title to my land."

Terry, face so red his scars seemed white, looked away and grunted, looking more and more embarrassed.

Godfrey looked it over, but shook his head. "Neither of us could read," he said softly. "Scribbles on a paper don't mean much out amongst the trees. But the seal looks official enough. We meant no harm."

"You never do," Achilles replied, carefully taking back his papers, folding them gently and neatly, before replacing them.

"Neither of us has ever seen... a freed man."

"I was never a slave," Achilles said. "I was born free and I will stay that way." He nodded to Connor. "This is my apprentice. He is, as you white people would call him, a _savage_."

"Savage?" Godfrey sputtered, "but he _saved_-"

"Exactly," Achilles interrupted. "You may not read or write, but words have _meaning_. You can understand that. So make sure you use your words accurately." The Old Man stood, his plate empty, and went to the kitchen to clean it before retiring to his room.

"Er, we seemed to have stepped in it," Godfrey said.

Connor took several breaths, trying to reach for stillness and peace. Achilles had handled himself with quiet dignity and grace, so Connor would do the same. He _would_. He _would_.

"Tough little coon, isn't he?" Terry commented.

He would until Terry opened his mouth. Connor stood, grabbed his unfinished plate, and headed upstairs before he did something stupid. Behind him, he could hear Godfrey punch Terry. "You _idiot_! Can't you see what you're doing to our hosts!"

The following day, Ratonhnhaké:ton greeted the dawn much more calmly than when he'd gone to bed the previous evening. He had deliberately avoided the lumberjacks with his temper so close to bursting, his jaw aching from trying to contain his rage. But time away had let him realize that the two Scotsmen didn't know any better. Where Godfrey seemed to have understood quickly that certain language was insulting, Terry had not. They spoke from ignorance and truly had not meant harm. If they learned, then they would no longer speak from ignorance. Just as Connor was learning the white man's way so that he did not speak wrongly, the Scotsmen had to learn so as not to speak wrongly.

With a deep breath, Conner slipped downstairs, wanting to get going on his run. When he came back the lumberjacks would be awake and he could then explain things. He pushed himself during the run. He had not slept well, realizing how badly he had acted in face of ignorance, when the Old Man had acted with dignity. Ratonhnhaké:ton wished to act like Achilles in the face of such ignorance. He could not let his anger and anxiety rule him. If he were to face down his father, he would need stillness. But stillness was so hard to achieve. So he pushed himself, running further and faster, as he _could_ achieve that. On the way back, he did not walk, but instead jogged, intending to eventually run back and forth from his farthest points.

Entering the homestead, the _manor_, Connor was surprised to see Achilles sitting with Godfrey and Terry in the dining room once more, all of them chuckling. Terry's clothes had dried and he was finally dressed properly, and it appeared that his sour mood had evaporated with his embarrassment.

"Hello, young Connor," Godfrey stood in greeting as did Terry. "Will ye have breakfast with us?"

Not knowing what to make of the sight, Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at Achilles. There was a brief nod, so Connor stepped into the dining room. "Yes," he said softly.

"I was just telling Godfrey and Terry here," Achilles said with his papery voice, "that since they have already settled onto my land, they can keep it."

"Very kind of him!" Terry said with a huge grin.

"They will owe me some money for not actually talking to me about using my land, but that will be paid with the lumber they produce."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Achilles nodded then gestured. "When we were in Boston, you couldn't get any lumber, right?"

"Yes," Connor said, eyes alight as he realized the possibility of trade. "The store owner said his usual supplier had disappeared."

"And we can provide lumber," Godfrey said with his own large smile. "We were just going over the details."

Godfrey and Terry left soon after, heading back to where they had been building their mill with large grins and already arguing about what their best cuts of lumber were so far, what had been seasoned properly, and when to have their families come down from Lake Champlain.

"I'll miss the peace and quiet, but we could certainly use the wood." Achilles sighed. "You'd best be going with them, Connor."

Connor blinked, surprised, and turned to Achilles. "Sorry?"

"You've shown you haven't learned anything of stillness or patience," Achilles said, good humor gone and once more the bitter Old Man he was. "Therefore, you'll learn it another way. I will not show you how to fight, hide, or anything else of that manner, until those two lumberjacks have a proper home, mill and all."

Connor's jaw dropped. "But that will take months!"

The Old Man continued, ignoring Connor's interruption. "Once you've learned how the home is built and all that's different from your longhouses, you can do the repairs around the manor. Spring is coming and with your bottomless belly, you'll plant and tend to the gardens, as well as clearing out some of the trees that are growing too close."

"But-"

"Our lessons on history and language and intellect will continue through the afternoon and evenings. Tomorrow, however, you'll accompany me instead of helping the lumberjacks."

All sorts of protests rose within Ratonhnhaké:ton, of how much experience his father had, so _how_ was Ratonhnhaké:ton to catch up if he was about to lose _months_ to doing... repairs? But he couldn't find the words, his jaw clenched to prevent an explosion as anxiety surged forth. His people couldn't afford to wait!

"Maybe after all this is over," the Old Man said, entering the homestead, "you'll understand something about patience."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to realize that these chapters are so incredibly dense that if I want to talk about everything it would take, like an addition bunch of pages. Still I have to try, and the obvious place to start (maybe) is Haytham Kenway, though the majority of his notes will come in later chapters, take note that this is the first time Connor physically sees his father and he doesn't know what to do.
> 
> It's pointed out in game several times through implication or outright dialogue that Ratonhnhake:ton is naive. It's stated in game that Kanatahseton is very isolated, and it's not much of a logical leap to assume that they keep to the old traditions, even though the Haudenosaunee have been trading with settlers for quite a while now; and that the only white people they've seen is Charles Lee and the Templars on That Day. Unlike Ezio, who was seventeen and an emotionally healthy adult, Ratonhnhake:ton was a kid, not fully formed, and entire pieces of himself were frozen. More on that later, but the damage of the village raid is far reaching on his psyche and one of the ways he coped with the tragedy is to label all "bad guys" as demon Stone Coats. The game hints that Connor is a berserker, and while we don't really have the place or the time to get into it, we touch on it in small places like with the bandits in the previous chapter and, er, later installments. Here, however, Connor is his naive self. He is young and he is impressionable - Achilles understands that and acts accordingly, and is very picky about who his teachers are.
> 
> Enter Sam Adams. Historians are of two minds about him: he was either a radical from the very start, or he was a reformist first who became a radical as time progressed. We've obviously gone with the latter interpretations, simply because Connor has to LIKE him and it's easier if Sam started out as a good man first. Sam Adams is a politician, all the negative stereotypes included with that word. He is a showman, aware of his audience and how to feed it and willing to be underhanded to serve his agenda. None of these things are values Connor would share or even like, but the one redeeming thing about Sam Adams is that his overarching goal is virtuous: self governance. Were that today's politicians - underhanded or not - at least had noble goals.
> 
> And that's another thing. I don't know if readers have ever come across this, but it's not uncommon for fanfic writers to write a fic to serve as a mouthpiece for their agenda: bashing character X, discussing gay rights in a slash fic, etc. Imagine the temptation in writing a fanfic that takes place in the American Revolution and you're a set of twins that are very politically active. It was painfully tempting to go on long rants about our own political ideas using Sam Adams and all the others as mouthpieces, and we repeatedly curbed ourselves: we instead tried at every avenue to let the characters and their political views speak for themselves. Even the ones we inherently disagree with. It's worth mentioning.
> 
> Which leads us to Godfrey and Terry. The homestead characters are unique in that Connor deliberately picks very egalitarian people; a real life homestead of the time would not be nearly so respectful to Prudence and Warren, or Ellen of Myriam, so there's a little unreality in the historical context of Rockport. Having said that, we decided to poke at that perfection just a little bit, and it's not much of a stretch to think that Terry will speak without thinking, and not understand why he's being offensive. And he asked a legit question, too. Back in the day, African Americans were NOT allowed to own land of any kind. The weak logic (that we never got to explain) is based on one of the letter bottles from Black Flag where the Sage landed at Davenport and found a family with a servant, if we recall correctly. The family, when they died, left the land to the servant but just never told the authorities that the servant was black, i.e. Achilles Davenport. Since Rogue came out this no longer works, but we don't discuss it regardless. Even we have limits on how close to history we can get.
> 
> As for the Boston Massacre itself, our only regret is there was no way to reasonably get Connor to hear the names of all the players, but we played it to history as near as we could. Also, Charles Lee was still in Europe at the time, there was no way here was there. And Haytham... well. To be continued.
> 
> Next chapter: building houses. Building homestead. Building Connor.


	7. The Aquila

The following day, Connor had resigned himself to the fact that he had much to learn of patience, and accompanied Achilles down the back of the hill, curving along the cliffside to the pile of stones that Connor had arrived at from Boston. There was a small shack set back from the shore with a small building. There was one chimney in the back and windows were only one on either side of the only door. The home wasn't of brick, but of wood, with wooden shingles and a wooden porch of tiny size. From inside was some sort of off-key singing, adding to the almost desolate nature of the small... shack.

"What are we looking for here?" Connor asked softly.

"An... asset." Achilles gestured and Connor knocked politely on the door.

"Go 'way!" a slurred voice bellowed.

A glance at the Old Man, and Achilles nodded. Softly, quietly, Connor opened the door, with great caution. The smallest crack gave a rank smell Connor could not identify beyond foul. Inside a man was slumped against the wall by the fireplace, bottles around him, and the stench intensifying.

The man was clearly older, gray hair and beard turning snowy white, and his cheeks were bright red as he gestured wildly with the bottle in hand that sloshed. "Said 'go 'way', boy," he slurred. "D'ya not speak the King's English?"

Connor opened the door wider, hoping to entice any sort of cold breeze to cut through the stench of the squalor. How could anyone live with the smell? Achilles shuffled in behind Connor.

"Oh, I didn't see you there, Old Man," the red-faced man slurred, more calm. He glanced around the room. "I'd've set my home in order if I'd known you'd be callin'. It's been what... seven years since you locked yourself in the manor? Two since I had her drug here?"

Connor wondered who the "her" dragged here had been.

"This," Achilles gestured to the red-faced man, "is Robert Faulkner. Instead of your morning run, you'll be working with him."

Tightening his jaw to avoid comment, Connor rubbed at his nose to try and remove the stench that was still infiltrating it.

"The boy's name is Connor," Achilles turned to Robert. "He's here to restore the property. Among other things."

"Restore?" Faulkner asked in shock. Then his face lit up into a smile. "Restore! Pardon my manners!" he slouched forward and staggered up, still clutching the bottle tightly. Three steps brought them all out into the cold March air and away from the foul smell, for which Connor was relieved. Faulkner squinted against the light, but gestured with his bottle. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic – sure she needs some attention... minor things mostly, but with a little affection she'll fly again."

Connor looked around for a woman. Perhaps one with wings. A member of the Thunders who brought thunder and lightning perhaps? "Who is 'she'?"

"_Who_ is _she_?" Faulkner slurred as he growled. "Why the Aquila, boy!" he pointed out to the harbor. "The Ghost of the North Seas!"

The only thing in the harbor was the wreck.

Connor looked at it and squinted, trying to see what Faulkner saw. "The boat?" he asked incredulously.

"B-b-a _boat_?!" Faulkner shouted, clearly insulted. He whirled, staggered, then loomed at Connor, his disgusting breath making Connor step back and cover his nose. "She's a _ship_, boy, and make no mistake about it!" He staggered to Achilles. "I thought you said you brought him to restore order? I reckon he's the greenest thing on the frontier!"

Achilles only gave a satisfied smile. "Connor, meet me back at the manor when you're finished here." He patted Faulkner's shoulder, and turned to hobble up the path.

Faulkner squinted to Connor, before throwing his hand up in defeat, still clutching his bottle possessively. "Naïve, inexperienced, _boy_!"

Connor bristled. "You said it requires repairs..." he attempted to say confidently. He glanced up and down at the staggering, red-faced man. "You able?"

Faulkner rounded. "_She_ does need work," he growled, the slur slowly receding. "A ship is a 'she', boy, and _yes_ I can refit her but I'm lacking in the proper supplies. Some... Some quality timber would help me get started. I've got money saved to repair her, but not enough for the _starting_ points."

Well, that was an easy task. "We have lumberjacks on the property."

Faulkner whirled, and for the first time, hope seemed to sparkle in his eyes. He gave a large grin. "Well what are we waiting for! Let's go see them!"

The conversation between Faulkner, Godfrey, and Terry was truly something to watch. They all argued about price and quality, Faulkner trying to get a cheaper and cheaper price, Godfrey and Terry going for a higher and higher price. There were some massive white pine trunks that the lumberjacks had cut the previous year that they were "seasoning" until they could make proper planks, and Faulkner wanted them reserved as masts and such for the ship. Finally they came to an agreement that included Faulkner carrying goods for them once he had his ship up and sailing.

From there, Faulkner dragged Connor on the three day trip back to Boston to get laborers for building a proper pier, which apparently already had stone foundations but had never been finished, and to get to work hefting the ship, the Aquila, out of the harbor for proper repairs. The rest of March and a good ways into April was spent with Connor learning more than he thought possible of construction. He had thought longhouses were complicated when weaving the wood together, but the way these colonists constructed things, taking such great care with the very foundations, was just so... strange. Most of the time was spent with Godfrey and Terry, getting a good foundation for the root cellar. The two lumberjacks had been living in their mill or camping by it, and with a proper lease of the land and the ability to call for their families, they wanted to get a good start on a proper home.

During the whirlwind of learning construction, Achilles spent their afternoons with culture and reading, and now a ledger as well, keeping track of what was purchased, what was sold, their dealings, and what to budget for. Soon Connor's mind was a whirl with numbers as well as everything else he was learning. He had tried to ask of the older accounts, but the Old Man did not say much. Only that it was from years prior, before the slow fever. Before the Templars. Before everything collapsed.

Near the end of April, after digging through Achilles's small garden and planting the Three Sisters, maize, beans, and squash, so that their harmony together would provide harmony in the body when harvested, Connor had entered the actual root cellar, past the training ring, and noted that they were almost out of salted meat. Achilles said he would merely order some from Boston, but Connor had simply shook his head in exasperation, saddled the nag of a horse, and rode out, saying he'd be back in a few days.

To be alone in the forests was surprisingly relaxing. There was no more hustle and bustle, and Connor felt like he had a moment to finally think. Already he was planning ahead. With the Three Sisters planted, rabbits would start to try and nibble, so he could set snares to have steady meat while training, but hunting trips like this, getting a deer or two for venison to be salted or smoked in order to keep, particularly when winter came, would be necessary every few weeks. He would not need much to sustain them for a while. And as he planned ahead, he realized that he was using the math Achilles had been teaching him, estimating how much meat was used in one day and extrapolating from that. Ratonhnhaké:ton scowled briefly that the Old Man was with him even when out hunting, but he already saw how the lessons could be applied more practically in every day life rather than the philosophy and study of culture that he'd been doing. Blinking Ratonhnhaké:ton paused as he reviewed that. He had only just turned fifteen and back with his people he had always been told how many of what animal to get by the Roiiá:ner, the clan chiefs. But how did they know how much of what to get? They must have used math as well. Ratonhnhaké:ton scowled. No doubt when the clan chiefs learned math it was easier than how the Old Man presented it.

He was up on the cliff road that lead down to the valley, Achilles's old nag of a horse walking under the weight of Ratonhnhaké:ton's catches on their way home, when Ratonhnhaké:ton smelled something he did not wish to smell. A warm breeze brought with it the sting and smell of smoke, and he could not help but remember eleven years prior, to the last time he'd caught such a strong whiff in the wind. Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly hurried down the road, pulling the old nag with him. When he came to a break in the trees that overlooked the valley, he instantly saw that the fire was not of the homestead, as he'd feared, or in the valley, but of a wagon that was burning. Three brutes were intimidating a man on his knees, who was pleading.

"No! _No_!" And then one of the brutes laughed cruelly and pushed the heavyset man over the cliff. "Ahhh!"

"Let's see if our man can fly."

Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes and pulled out his _tamahac_, the stone still as strong as when he'd first come here. While not Templars, these were still _atenenyarhu_, beings who fed off of others. And Ratonhnhaké:ton would _not_ allow them into the valley.

"Please! Help! Anyone!" the man who had been pushed cried out.

Ratonhnhaké:ton raced forward, swinging his _tamahac_ and smashing in the skull of the man closest to him, before jumping to a second, the hidden blade of his other wrist slicing into the man's throat. The last _atenenyarhu_, had a musket, but hadn't brought it up to bear, staring in shock as Ratonhnhaké:ton had killed his two companions in less than ten seconds. Ratonhnhaké:ton stalked forward, aware that the musket was deadly and to be treated carefully. But the last Stone Coat was still staring, so Ratonhnhaké:ton leapt forward, knocking the man to the ground and slamming his _tamahac_ to the neck and head once, twice, three times. Standing, he looked around. Three _atenenyarhu_ dead. And so fast. The Old Man's lessons were helping.

"What in God's name is going on up there?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the rope that was anchored to a bolder, hanging over the edge. "Hello?"

"Pull me up!" the man screamed.

"A moment!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at the rope, and the rock the man was hanging against. There seemed to be no jagged edges that might cut the rope as it moved, and the man's hands were unbound. It would still be awkward, as the man was bound by his feet, but they would need to work together to ensure there was no further damage.

"You need to make sure you do not bounce against the rock," he called down. "I know you are..." what was the word... "disoriented, but focus on your feet, so that the rope does not fray."

"_Fray_? God, I'm going to die!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton stopped listening, and focused on wrapping his hands so that the rope would not burn him. Carefully wrapping the rope around his hands, he started to pull.

"_Ouch_!"

Slowly, pulling the rope around the rock so that it could take more weight and then returning to where he started and wrapping his hands again, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled up the man who had dissolved into sobs and grunts with the slow process of ascending. With a final grunt, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled the man over the rock enough that the man was grasping and scrambling to get as far from the edge as he could. The man was in hysterics, unable to hear anything or focus on anything. So Ratonhnhaké:ton moved slowly, pulling out his skinning knife and motioned to cut the rope. He was not certain if the man understood, but he did not panic further as Ratonhnhaké:ton cut the man's legs free.

Glancing around, Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. He could not leave this man alone, not when he was so upset. So he back tracked to the nag and tied her to some bushes and started to pull out supplies. While the torched wagon was isolated on the road and with no wind to blow embers to the springing plants, it was easy for Ratonhnhaké:ton to use it to start a proper camp fire. Two of the hares that he had caught were soon being cooked over the fire, and his blanket roll was set. The Stone Coats he dragged to the bushes.

The hysterical man seemed to have calmed, or at least wasn't screaming and sobbing any more, and Ratonhnhaké:ton let him be, not wishing to set off any outbursts. He still remembered how long it had taken him to calm after watching his _ista_ die, so he gave the man the space he needed.

The man was round. Brown hair and beard, his clothes a little too tight and worn thin. And though his frame held much weight, his hands were strong. There was muscle under the shirt, though not as thick and bulging as Godfrey and Terry, the lumberjacks. The beards of the white man made telling age difficult for Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he guessed that this man that he had saved was a decade older than Terry, with Godfrey splitting the difference.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stayed up late, ensuring that the panicked man got to sleep and provided the man with his blanket against the cold night. While he slept, Ratonhnhaké:ton gathered pine branches for himself and slowly went to sleep.

Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't realized how much he appreciated the soft bed of the manor until the following morning when he awoke achy and tender. The sun was only just cresting the ocean in the distance, so he stoked the embers and set about warming the leftovers of the hares from the previous night.

The man groggily awoke as the smell encompassed their campsite. "Smells good..." Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he just looked around for a moment. Ratonhnhaké:ton let him collect himself. "Oh, young man. Thank you," the man said, wiping at his eyes, though from sleep or tears, Ratonhnhaké:ton was uncertain. "Thank you."

"Are you alright?"

"I think so..." The man took the hare that Ratonhnhaké:ton offered. "Those blaggards didn't do much to me aside from a good scare."

"What did they want with you?"

"My purse, which is meager," the rotund man replied. "When that didn't work they decided they'd punish me for their trouble." He let out an odd laugh. "Silly really, my tools and equipment _were_ worth a king's share to the right man." He looked forlornly to his wagon. "Now gone."

They fell to silence, and finished eating.

"In any case," the man said, "I best get on my way. It's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood. "Long indeed. The nearest town is a half day away by wagon. You will be on foot."

"Can't be helped." The man attempted to stand, then yelped and fell back down. "_Of all the...!_"

Ratonhnhaké:ton came over and helped the man pull of his shoes. Both ankles were swollen and angry. "Let me check the bone." But the bone was fine, though the man grunted and gasped as Ratonhnhaké:ton checked. "You can ride with me. I can bring you to the homestead where you might rest."

"You are too kind," the man said. "My name is Lance."

"I am Connor." Connor stood and started the pack up the camp. "Let us get you on my horse."

The nag _whuffed_ discontentedly at the extra weight, but there was no helping it. They would likely reach the manor by nightfall, given the slower pace necessary for the horse. As they rode, Connor didn't need to say much to get conversation flowing.

"I was a proud resident of Boston," Lance said with a sad shake of his head. "Two years ago all those soldiers came and they were all billeted in our homes. I was a known Son of Liberty, so some Tory took great pleasure in pointing out that my home and shop were available to soldiers."

"What type of shop do you run?"

Lance puffed with pride. "A wood shop. Tables, chairs, slats for plaster, flooring, cabinetry, anything that requires a good piece of oak or hickory and I can make it." Lance then deflated. "Or I _could_. Those blaggards burned my wagon and all my tools." It was a source of great sorrow. Before leaving the wagon, Lance had insisted on going through the remains, no matter how warm the embers still were, to salvage what he could.

Which wasn't much.

By midday they were at the mill, and Godfrey came over to say hello. "G'day, Connor! See you got a new friend?"

"This is Lance, a woodworker," Connor went about introductions. "He was being robbed when I found him."

Godfrey glanced at the swollen ankles. "And roughed over, it looks like. Well, welcome!"

"My thanks," Lance smiled. "I see you have a good mill here."

"We'd better after the last year o' building it," Godfrey beamed, proud of their accomplishments.

"What sort of woods have you harvested?"

"Oak mostly, red and white. It's what's most plentiful here, but we spied a good nest of pines northwest of here, and a grove of hickories to the west."

Connor interrupted before things devolved into the details of wood that he would likely not understand. "Perhaps you can come visit while Lance is recovering? The two of you can discuss woods then?"

"Right ye are, laddie," Godfrey guffawed. "Best let you get back to the Old Man. He'll be looking forward to all that meat ye're bringing home."

Things returned to routine after that, with Connor helping to build a home for Godfrey and Terry, learning of ships with Robert, studying trade, culture, and politics with Achilles. As the weather continued to warm into May, Lance proved quite adept around the manor. He did not care for sitting still and, sometimes bouncing on one foot, set about using the lumber that the lumberjacks provided to start doing repairs as a way of paying back their kindness.

Soon as Lance healed, Achilles informed Connor that he had a new home to build. Lance's. Having a woodworker around, especially with the quality that Godfrey and Terry did with their cuts, would provide more income for various things. Connor burned at another delay before getting to his physical training, but said nothing. Lance actually proved to be a great help in building the homes once he was recovered enough to work. Though portly, he had no trouble getting in to the work and provided all sorts of calculations of "square" and "plum" to set the homes to ensure it lasted. He borrowed tools from Godfrey and Terry mostly, but Connor could see that the lack of his own tools was wearing at Lance.

"I had a spare set of tools at my shop when I left," Lance explained. "The shop is still in my name, even though the _redcoats_ occupied it. My apprentice, Patrick, if he has any brains, will be using them to keep the shop going. He was a fare hand with wood, just lazy."

"How are you doing otherwise?"

"Oh, alright I suppose," Lance said sadly. "Things never really go as planned... but that's life."

"Really?" Connor's brow raised. "How do you mean?"

"You know," Lance waved, "you make a plan and it all goes awry and nothing gets better, only slightly different."

That was just... sad. "Sounds like you have had a string of misfortune. It will pass now that you are here." After all, Conner wouldn't allow any Stone Coats onto the land.

However Lance not having his tools bothered Connor and he discussed it with Achilles.

"If he is to make a good go at a business here, he will need proper tools. But he doesn't have the money to pay for them, nor do we," Achilles explained patiently.

Connor remained unconvinced.

"Fine," Achilles sighed. "You go to Boston and try to find tools." He held out a paper. "This is Lance's address, and how much we have to spend on proper tools. You won't find anything." The Old Man narrowed his eyes. "Don't forget your purpose. You are in Boston for tools, only. Don't get distracted with the usual rigamarole that infests cities."

So the next day Connor headed out with the wagon to make the two day trip to Boston.

Once in the city, he found Sam Adams.

"Hello, Connor," the man greeted warmly. "It's good to see you back in the city. It seems that London learned _something_ from that massacre, and has repealed the Townshed Acts. All but the tax on tea," Sam shook his head. "Always have to have the last word."

"I am glad that the acts have been..." Connor hesitated with the new word, "_repealed_. But I am in town for supplies. Do you know this address?"

Sam smiled, energetically bouncing around his office, digging through piles of papers. "I have a map of the city somewhere... aha! Like I thought. The north end. That will be near the dry docks, where all the ships get built."

"Thank you."

"No problem. Here, have the map," Sam smiled warmly again. "Never knew when it will come in handy. I can get a new one if I need it."

Connor stayed and chatted a bit more, Sam still going on about the Townshed Acts and how keeping the tax on tea made the entire gesture pointless. He finally left and headed north.

The address was not of a woodworker. It was instead, an _apothecary_.

"Excuse me, but is this not a woodworker's shop?" Connor asked softly of the man behind the counter.

"Not since I bought the shop."

"From a Patrick?"

"Yes," the shop keeper grunted. "Drunk waste of a man. Lost all of his money for his precious booze, and since the owner had been shipped off, the only way to pay off his debts was to sell the shop."

"That is unfortunate," Connor frowned, thinking. "Do you know where I might find Patrick?"

The shop keeper grunted. "Drunk's at the pub around the corner. It's the only place you ever find him. Drinking away the money he got from me buying this shop."

"Thank you."

Connor found the pub and immediately identified the stale smell that Faulkner had clinging to him when they had first met. Alcohol. Even at midafternoon, there were numerous patrons, though the bar was far from full, so Connor headed to the bar where the only man who wasn't tipsy was.

"I don't serve kids, get out."

"I do not wish a drink," Connor replied, nervous. And he certainly never wanted a drink given what it seemed to do to people. "I seek a man. Patrick, who used to apprentice to a woodworker named Lance just around the corner."

"That drunk," the bartender nodded. "He's over there. Say what you need to, then leave."

Connor frowned at the unpleasant man, but turned to the man the barkeep had pointed to. The man was easily half of Lance's age, but his face was hard and red as he squinted into the mug in front of him. "Patrick? Apprentice of Lance?"

"Whaddya want?"

"You sold the shop that Lance owned."

The man turned beady eyes to Connor. "Was a useless business, never made any money," he slurred. "None o' your business."

"Where are the tools if you no longer have a shop?"

The drunk squinted at Connor, his mind clearly working at something. "Piss off!" he shouted, then staggered away. This did not seem right. There was a shift in Patrick's eyes that Connor did not trust. Lance said that tools were a woodworker's lifeblood, something to be kept preserved and taken care of as they were the means of livelihood. If Patrick wished to earn any money for his alcohol, he would still need the tools. Some craftsmanship of some sort to get what was needed for the next drink.

So Connor softly stood, slipping along the crowds, and followed.

In many ways hunting a man in the city was more difficult than hunting a bear in the forest. A bear would be deadly in any confrontation, being of greater size and power. But the bear was slow, lumbering in most circumstances, and could be tricked. A man might not have the keen senses of an animal, but he planned and prepared. Even as Patrick staggered away, he glanced around, checked corners, and looked for Connor's tall frame and hide skins that were so distinguishable in the city. But just as Patrick could plan, so could Connor. He stayed in crowds, hunched, played with dogs. It was strangely exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

Patrick stumbled along to what Connor believed to be his home, or some sort of room he rented, leaving the door wide open. Connor sat across the street, observing. Nothing happened for a time, and Connor was starting to wonder if he was somehow wrong. But, two hours later, Patrick, still staggering if just not as badly, came out with a box of tools. Connor followed still, until the drunk came to a stagecoach station.

Right. So this Patrick had stolen Lance's tools for his own drunken needs, and was now leaving when there was a possibility of being caught. Well, while Patrick was inside, likely booking passage, Connor simply took the tools from the wagon and walked away. He was soon on his way back to the homestead.

Lance was grateful for the tools, and Achilles was relieved it didn't cost them anything. Connor continued to spend his time helping Lance and Godfrey and Terry with their homes and with Faulkner and the laborers he'd brought up from Boston to refit the Aquila. Spring turned to summer, and still Achilles refused to train him in the fighting until the homes were finished. Godfrey and Terry's home, which was large given it had to hold two families, was approaching completion, but Lance insisted more time be spent on his workshop than his home, making the progress drag on.

With a heavy sigh one morning, Connor headed down to see how Faulkner was doing. The boat... _ship_ was looking more and more complete, and the laborers were no longer the same that he'd seen for the past few months. Indeed, several of the new men were clambering about the ship, climbing the ropes and scrambling along the upper crossbeams.

"Come aboard and feast your eyes, boy!" Faulkner bellowed from atop the back side of the ship.

Connor smiled, glad that Faulkner was taking such pride in the ship. He stepped to the gangplank and Faulkner was yelling again, but not in pride. "No, no, no no! Not the left foot! Never the left foot! Horrible luck..." Connor hesitated, raised an eyebrow, then stepped with his right foot. "There's a good boy, step with your right foot first."

Shrugging at the superstitions, Connor looked around the ship. Faulkner had been trying to teach him the terminology, but there were almost too many new words to keep track of. So rather than stumble through wording, Connor tugged at a rail that didn't move. "She is..." he looked for a word that would be seen as a compliment, "... solid?"

Faulkner's eyes twinkled. "Aye. Weatherly and sleek." He smiled broadly. "She'll fetch twelve knots in a stiff gale, ne'er a ship from here to Singapore can outrun her on her best day." He then grabbed Connor by the shoulder and dragged him about the ship proudly listing all the accomplishments they'd achieved over the summer. "Told you I could refit her with the proper supplies!" Connor started to get a sense of some of the words, but it was still a sea of jargon. Faulkner proudly brought them above deck again and beamed. Connor couldn't help smiling as well. This was not the man who wallowed in liquor just a season ago. This was a man once more filled with hope. Faulkner looked to Connor with a gleam of mischief in his eye. "Wha'dya say we take her out and show you what she can do first hand?"

Connor blinked. "Where would we go?"

The mischief grew. "As it happens, she still needs guns and the officers to command them. It will be the last of my savings, but once this ship is on the water, I'll have no problem making money again. I did sail for a number of merchants for many years, after all, once I realized the Navy'd never have me."

"Would not have you?" Faulkner never spoke of his past much, no doubt because of whatever sorrow that had him looking to a bottle.

"I was enlisted for a while, but I never had the money to purchase commissions."

Connor nodded, remembering the lessons Achilles gave. To become an officer in the British army or navy, one needed money to buy the right. Skill had nothing to do with it, which Connor did not approve of. The best task needed to go to the best person, not the one who had the most money, it was unrelated.

"I see."

"So let's go! We'll launch straight away." Faulkner was once again smiling mischievously. "Don't worry, lad, I'll make sure you sprout good sea legs." He turned to the men and bellowed, "Haul in the mainsail! Get up the rigging! Hand over fist! Come on, men! Let's get her out where she needs to be!"

All at once the laborers, whom Connor realized were actually _sailors_, sprang to life, pulling at random ropes, releasing sails, and scrambling about with joy to be heading to sea. They were soon out of the small harbor and out onto the vast ocean. It was truly an amazing experience. Previously, when he'd sailed from Boston to the homestead in a morning, he'd been too concerned about why Achilles had abandoned him and the swirling thoughts of what had happened around the Boston Massacre that he'd failed to prevent. Now, however, on the deck and feeling the wind in his face and hair, it was magnificent!

Faulkner chuckled. "We'll make a jack tar out of you yet."

After a few hours on the sea, Connor stood by Faulkner's side. "The crew does not call you Faulkner," he commented.

The old seaman chuckled. "That's because I'm the captain. They need to trust me and listen to me. So I get a fancy title and the respect that I'll do right by them."

Connor nodded. "And this wheel you clutch..."

"It's my connection to her. I listen and feel. If the wind changes, I need to change with it." Faulkner smiled again, joy bubbling up into a laugh. "Ha ha! The Aquila flies again! D'ya feel it lad?"

Feeling the wind, remembering how the wind felt when he was an eagle in his vision, Connor smiled as well. "Yes."

"Set course for Martha's Vineyard!" Faulkner called out. "We'll find our guns and officers there."

The journey took two days as Faulkner faced the wind and a small spat of bad weather as they were circling the exterior of Cape Cod. It was perhaps the first time Connor started to _understand_ all the words that Faulkner and the sailors threw around that described the ship. What was _aft_, what was _port_, etc. Faulkner was correct, the Aquila was indeed nimble and watching the captain guide her was like watching Achilles take down Connor in training. A master at work. He seemed to know where every sandbar and rock off the coast of Massachusetts was and skillfully maneuvered around them with apparent ease.

"Cottages," Faulkner said, pointing. Connor looked left... _port_, and saw them up on a hill. "That'll be Oak Bluffs. We're close to Haven Harbor. We'll drop anchor, go ashore, buy our guns and find our officers."

Connor was surprised as the sailors, once docked, started to unload lumber from the belly of the ship.

"From our lumberjacks," Faulkner grinned. "We're already be making money back. Come on, there's a particular tavern I've been wanting to visit. We'll get information there."

Faulkner gave orders to the crew and set off up the hill at a brisk speed that Connor easily kept pace with. The tavern was near the top of the hill, providing a beautiful view of the harbor below. As they approached, Faulkner became oddly nervous, running a hand through his hair, his beard, straightening out his clothes. After one last anxious glance down to the Aquila, he opened the door and entered.

Inside, Faulkner seemed to shrivel as he looked to a woman Faulkner's age pulling glasses from shelves. "Oh, hullo, Miss Mandy," Faulkner greeted almost sheepishly. "You're looking every bit as ravishing as I remember."

Connor turned to one side to hide the smile.

The woman, Miss Mandy, turned with a bright, happy smile before schooling her face to more serious and reprimanding. "After all these years you sail all the way to the Vineyard to pay me compliments?" she said archly.

"Ahhh," Faulkner stuttered, "We're looking for David and Richard Clutterbuck."

"Nice to see you, too," Mandy replied dryly. "They'll be in by this evening. I suppose I can _serve_ you while you're here." Faulkner went bright red, then laughed. "Come on, Connor. Meet Miss Amanda Bailey, the best woman God ever produced."

"There's your silver tongue again," Amanda replied, "maybe I should cut it out and sell it for some extra pounds."

The banter that followed was so convoluted and based on double meanings that Connor didn't understand, he soon found himself lost.

They stayed at the tavern through the afternoon and Amanda served them dinner at no charge under the express condition that Faulkner not up and disappear on her again. The sun was sinking lower and lower, and it was almost sunset when the two that Faulkner was looking for arrived.

"Robert Faulkner!" the older of the two brothers said. "Where the hell have you been?"

Both brothers came over and sat down with Faulkner and Connor, ordering dinner from Amanda and eager to catch up. "Where the hell you been?"

Faulkner laughed. "Sorry for leavin' like I did, lads, but where I was going... no one could know..."

"Such secrecy," the younger, Richard smiled. "Free to talk now?"

"Nope!" Faulkner replied. "Recruiting!"

Faulkner remained very vague about the goals, but emphasized the fact that he'd be doing a fair bit of trade with some... interesting... side business once in a while. David and Richard were intrigued and happy to go about getting a proper gun crew and talk devolved into whom to get guns from and where to refit. The Vineyard would likely provide the crew, as many stopped by between jobs, but the proper firepower would require a proper city. Groton, Connecticut, which had been building ships almost since its inception, was the closest port for that. After a lingering goodbye with Amanda, Faulkner quickly set sail once the gunners were aboard and they settled into the community to start outfitting the ship.

It took a few days to outfit the ship, including testing the new cannon and making sure that the crews followed both Faulkner's and the Clutterbuck's orders.

It was their last night before heading out and Faulkner insisted on drinking as much as possible to celebrate a proper voyage with a completely full crew. Connor didn't care for all the alcohol, but he did enjoy the lively dinner. There was a life within these sailors, despite the alcohol, that Connor could admire.

Things were going well, until Connor looked around the room of the tavern. Immediately, his eyes focused and his inner eagle screeched in the same anger and anxiety rising in Connor, dread and anticipation. There, a few tables over by the window, framed by the setting sun, was one of the _atenenyarhu_. Benjamin Church. He looked older than the portrait in the root cellar at the manor, his hair now a pure white, not a wig, but the heavyset man who was the one who had pointed the fire stick all those years ago, was there. Smiling. Like he didn't even remember the massacre of Ratonhnhaké:ton's village and mother.

Ratonhnhaké:ton yearned to stand up, march over, and kill him. The _atenenyarhu_ needed to die for the sake of all. But Achilles hadn't taught him anything new, and he had no idea if Church was as skilled as Ratonhnhaké:ton's father likely was. But ultimately, Church was not the leader of the _atenenyarhu_, he was not the one who spat out pure hate. Charles Lee was the leader of the massacre. Charles Lee was the one who stole Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother away. Charles Lee was the one who needed to pay _first_. The others would be lost without the center of the Stone Coats.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped forward, predatory, focus and eagle all devoted completely to this one person of information.

"Looks like your friend's about to catch a beatin'."

Words behind him were worthless. The slack-faced man beside Church was worthless. All that mattered was Church, and using him to find the leader of the _atenenyarhu_.

"Where is Charles Lee?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded.

Church turned, arrogance dripping from him as, even sitting, he looked down his nose to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "I don't care much for your tone, _boy_."

And where Robert Faulkner called him boy with affection, Church spoke with contempt and superiority. Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes, possibilities flashing across his eyes on what knowledge he did have and how to use it to make this _atenenyarhu_ _talk_.

But the slack-faced man sitting with Church stood, pushing into Ratonhnhaké:ton's personal space, and towering over Ratonhnhaké:ton's own tall frame. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not care. Church had what he needed for his objective.

"Hey..." Faulkner stepped in, pulling Ratonhnhaké:ton back. "You don't want to be doin' that, Biddle."

The slack-faced man turned narrow, contemptuous eyes to Faulkner.

"Bobby Faulkner turned to wet-nursing?" Biddle laughed, pushing Ratonhnhaké:ton out of the way.

Anger flared, Church was _right there_! But Faulkner put a firm hand to Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder, and Connor suddenly realized just where he was and what he was about to do. He doubted interrogating Church in a full tavern would have been viewed well. Achilles's many lessons on stealth and not letting others know that the Assassins existed came forward, and he fully realized what a scene he was about to make. Better to take out the _atenenyarhu_ when none watched, and let their evil disperse.

"Good you finally realized you're a _shite_ sailor," Biddle guffawed, oozing power.

Connor bristled, frustrated, but he stepped back, disappeared into the crowds as Faulkner and Biddle faced off, drawing all attention to them. No one saw him any more, which was how Connor _should_ have handled the situation in the first place. Achilles was right, he needed to learn patience. Not the patience of stalking a bear, or cougar, but the patience of finding the right time in the white man's world. To realize that people were around him who would not know the history, would not know the evil he faced, and would simply see him as a... _savage_.

Connor's jaw tightened at the injustice of this, of needing to fade and wait for a different opportunity. But he slid up to David Clutterbuck. "Should we help Mr. Faulkner?" he asked softly.

David nearly jumped three feet in the air, turning in surprise. "Where the _hell_ did you come from?"

Connor ignored the question. "Should we assist Mr. Faulkner?" he repeated.

But both David and Richard were smiling. "Naw," the Dutch brothers smiled. "The Captain's the slickest thing either on a ship or in a tavern. Won't be nothing more than words and we'll all leave quiet and calm like."

The brother's prediction proved true and Connor realized that there was yet another aspect of being an Assassin that he needed to train for.

Once they were on the ship, Faulkner cornered Connor. "What the _bloody hell_ was that about?"

"The older man is a Templar," Connor stated, still bursting with energy. "Who was he with?" he demanded.

"A Templar," Faulkner was surprised. "The young buck was Nicholas Biddle. Nobody. Sails before the mast, midshipman for the crown."

Connor frowned, reviewing the evening in his mind. Then shook his head, seeing the obvious. "He has been recruited for the Templars then."

Faulkner looked out to the ocean, his face flat and serious. "Then we'll face him again."

They sat together for a moment, the air heavy, then Faulkner sighed. "Now we should be getting back. The Old Man is likely to have my hide for keeping you out so long... First we need to sail up to Portland. Godfrey and Terry's families are waiting there to come join us at the homestead."

Connor nodded.

Once back at the homestead, both Faulkner and Connor escorted the two families to a very happy and grateful Godfrey and Terry. Faulkner was quickly imploring Connor to head up the hill before Achilles came out of retirement just for him, and Connor let out a soft smile and headed up the hill. Connor headed up, enjoying the color of the September leaves as they fell in bright golds. Already his mind was drifting to the days ahead. With winter approaching he'd need to do more hunting before the game started to hibernate, Lance would need firm convincing to focus on his home rather than his shop before the snows arrived, etc, etc.

When he entered, Achilles was standing hunched, yet firm, staring disapprovingly. "Three weeks," he accused, "and not even a goodbye before you left."

Connor blinked and realized, for the first time, that Achilles truly _did_ care for him and was worried when he'd disappeared. Shocked, all Connor could utter was a soft, "Sorry..." that didn't even begin to cover just _how_ sorry he really was.

"Well?" Achilles asked, turning. "What are you waiting for?"

The two headed down to the basement and Connor wondered what Achilles had in mind. Connor was not to train until the houses in the homestead were complete, so why come down here?

But, to Connor' surprise, they did start training. Intensely. Achilles took him through all the forms, all the exercise until Connor couldn't stand, late into the evening. It felt strangely like an assessment, but Connor did not yet have a full year of training, so he did not understand why.

When he finally collapsed, Achilles said nothing, then told him to go get some rest.

The following morning, Connor got ready to again head down the hill and help Lance and the two lumberjack families construct their homes. Achilles stopped him at the front door. Together they went down to the cellar again, and discussed what Nicholas Biddle meant for the Templars. This took well into the morning before Achilles finally stood. A dark hand gestured to the robes that hung in the training ring.

"Put them on."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised, and looked to the Old Man, who stood tall and proud as he usually couldn't with his bad leg. He nodded, and Connor couldn't help the eager smile as he did as asked.

"Once upon a time," Achilles said with his papery voice, "we had ceremonies on such occasions. But I don't think either of us are really the type for that." Connor rolled his shoulders, feeling the fabric, getting accustomed to how it moved, how it bunched, how it flowed. "You've your tools and training ahead of you. Your targets and goals. And now you have your title."

Connor felt the solemnity and weight of this. And he held his head high at the accomplishment.

"Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor."

* * *

"Welcome back, Desmond! You'll be happy to hear there's actually good news for once."

Desmond blinked slowly before rubbing his eyes and pressing his palms to them. Part of his mind was still that of a fifteen year old native trying so desperately to learn the culture of the white man and be ready for when it was time to destroy the Stone Coats that threatened his village. Ratonhnhaké:ton's partition slowly closed, and finally he could murmur a soft, "Yeah?"

"I've managed to locate a power source," Shaun said brightly, getting up from his station at the Animus. Rebecca was nearby at another laptop. "And it's relatively close by. Up for a trip to Manhattan?"

The programmer stiffened, turning around from her station. "Is it safe to leave?" she asked, her contralto voice low, worried. The all-too real loss of Lucy had changed her, made the former extreme sports enthusiast cautious, nervous. "Abstergo's got to be looking for us."

Impatient, Shaun turned to traditional caustic sarcasm. "Obviously, it's not _safe_," he said irritably. "We can't just sit around here hoping to get lucky, though, can we? We need that power source. Besides, I'm sure you can cook up some way to hide our movements." His last words were emphasized by a touch of her shoulder and a slightly softer tone.

Rebecca thought for a long moment. "Maybe..." she replied. "The Templars have access to all kinds of satellites and camera systems. We'll need to find a way to mask our digital signature, encrypt transmissions to look like something else. I can probably camouflage the van, too. But there's not much I can do for _us_."

Desmond, finally catching up with the conversation, actually smirked. "That's an easy one," he said, pulling up the hood of his zip-up sweatshirt and tugging it over his face. The view with the cloth over the top of his vision was so familiar – even though he had never done it himself – that he felt like he had done this all of his life. He had, in some respects, just not _his_ life. Altaïr and Ezio had almost never taken off their hoods, and even partitioned as they were, that sensation was burned into his mind.

"Excellent," Shaun said, "We'll brief our fearless leader when he wakes, and once Rebecca has set up her camouflages, we'll set out."

"Do we know how the city is doing?" Desmond asked. "You know, after Sandy?"

"It's November fourteenth, now," Rebecca said. "Voting has come and gone, priorities and all that – Obama won, by the way, by a landslide – but the city is still a mess. Governor Cuomo said damages are going to be thirty-three billion for the state, nineteen of which just for the city. Obama said Rockland and Westchester are disaster areas. A nor'easter blew in to screw us over some more, and everyone's kinda pissed about how long the clean-up is taking. Yesterday the head of Long Island Power resigned because of all the criticism. I think something like forty deaths have been reported so far, but the big thing is the transportation: They only _just_ opened the Battery Tunnel a couple days ago-"

"Jesus."

"-and even then it's just for 'limited rush hour' service. The Queens, Holland, and Midtown tunnels are open, sort of, and the governor's waiving a lot of fares and gas prices – something about an AB system to avoid the gas stations from going nuts, but I wasn't paying too much attention to that part. There are still zillions of people without power, though, and with all the car fuel and oils and refuse in the water, it's one big health emergency, nobody's allowed to drink the water, only bottled. Breezy Point's destroyed. On the upside, though, the looting seems to have stopped."

"_Jesus_," Desmond repeated. "I mean, I lived there for years. To hear all of this..." How was Bad Weather? The people? His coworkers?

"Yes, yes, all very devastating," Shaun said in a breezy voice, "Humanity in crisis and all that. It might help if, oh, I don't know, we saved the world ourselves from the impending solar disaster so we have time to worry about all the incidental politics of natural disasters."

"_Shaun_," Rebecca hissed.

"Don't worry about it, Rebecca," Desmond said quickly, sensing a bigger blow up in the works. "It's fine, just Shaun being Shaun." He gave the Brit a particularly dirty look, however, and moved away from the pair, removing himself from the conflict. He stalked towards a quiet corner of the Grand Temple and then dropped down into a plank, working his abdominal muscles as he held himself perfectly horizontal above the ground, holding it for an astonishing two minutes longer compared to his old times, and pushed into a series of exercises. Just because he had been told there were micro-movements in his muscles or deeper cognitive activity didn't mean he wasn't going to be totally prepared.

His body, however, surprised him to see it was in better condition than it was before his coma. For two hours he worked up a healthy sweat, including hanging from crevices to test the limits of his grip and handstands and other drills to train his upper body. When he was done and stretching, he moved back to the main corridor and headed away from the locked door, back towards the camp. His father was up, making faces at instant coffee.

Their fight before swelled in Desmond's mind. His jaw didn't hurt anymore, but the angry words pressed into his mind. He didn't want to admit it, but _he_ had started it; moving from the pain of Lucy to the pain of his father and doing exactly what he had done as a teen: pushed and pushed, until he at last got a reaction out of his father. Clay's memories drifted from their partition in his mind, and he reconciled the two different versions of his father, a little, and decided to try and right the wrong.

He approached slowly. William saw him, however, and gave him a suspicious look.

"Yes?" he demanded in a clipped tone.

Great start. Desmond kept his voice soft. "Just thought I'd... you know... say hi."

A withering gaze. "Shaun's told me about our upcoming trip to New York. You have more important things to do right now."

God. "Jesus, Dad," Desmond said, hurt that he was being rebuffed.

"What?" William demanded, tossing his coffee aside. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. 'Hi, son. How are you? What have you been up to?' " Desmond offered, sarcasm bleeding into his voice, thoughts of reconciliation being trampled in his mind.

"I know what you've been up to: Nothing." William looked directly at his son, pulling no punches and – as always – getting right to the point. "You wasted away in some shitty apartment with a pointless job, while the rest of us were out there fighting to make a difference."

That was it. "You are _such_ an asshole," he growled. This always happened, they would fight, Desmond would try to fix it, and his father would casually dismiss his efforts, building up resentment and more anger, leading to another fight. He watched as his father's eyes narrowed, a bad sign. William opened his mouth, some more biting vitriol, but Desmond cut him off. "I am such a fucking _idiot_ for thinking I should apologize to you. I dared to think you might be receptive to it, but I guess I was wrong. You'll _never _be receptive, because even _fighting_ is beneath you. You just sit on your moral high horse, use saving the fucking world as an excuse to judge everyone else because you're the goal-focused martyr that everyone should feel sorry for. Well I don't, Dad. I don't feel sorry for you. I feel resentment, and anger, and sometimes even fucking hatred because you-"

"_Desmond..._"

"Oh, you thinking about hitting me again?" he retorted, his voice low and dangerous as his stance changed. "Because this time, I will hit back. I have over a hundred years of experience between Altaïr and Ezio. How do you think you'll fare?"

And suddenly Rebecca was there, headphones at her neck and a cup of coffee in her hand as well, grabbing Desmond's and pulling at his sweatshirt. "Gotta talk to you, come with me, wanna show you something." Her abrupt appearance made both Desmond and William look at each other in confusion, but she continued to clutch Desmond's shoulder and tug. William, of course, lost patience and walked away, stalking towards Shaun.

"Good, crisis averted!" She pulled back and offered a weak smile. It disappeared, however, when she looked over Desmond's shoulder. "She's watching us again," she said softly.

Desmond blinked, looking over to the Animus where he saw _her_. He had thought... all the previous times... "We're being watched," he said, glaring at the apparition. "By Juno. Or some version of her."

Rebecca nodded, eying the apparition in no small amount of trepidation. "Do you think it's a recording? Or is she a ghost? Or... something else? Is she talking to us the way Minerva talked to Ezio?"

Desmond shrugged. "No clue. I'm in the Animus more than I'm out these days, remember. I mean, who knows what else they were working on down here. There are still so many rooms we don't have access to..." his voice trailed off, unsure where his thought was going. Did the power sources Shaun was researching do more? If power was restored to this place, it gave access passed the door, sure, but what _else_ would be turned on here?

"But... do you think she's like literally down here? Waiting somewhere? Still alive?"

Shaun walked in on their conversation, backpack in hand, and offered an incredulous noise. "Still alive, that's mental! That would mean she'd be at least – seventy-five? Eighty thousand years old? They were powerful, yeah – but not that powerful."

Rebecca's thoughts were running away with her, though. "They came down here looking for a way to survive, right? Maybe they found one?" Her face paled, and she darted back to the safety of her computers muttering about security and hiding.

"She's taking all this pretty hard," Desmond muttered. A lengthy pause drew out after that, and Desmond realized belatedly that Shaun was looking after the former rocker and a heavy look on his face, something looking like... but it was gone and the Brit shook his head, running a hand through his spiked hair and adjusting his glasses.

"I wonder how many other places like this exist," he said, changing topic awkwardly.

"There are dozens of them," Desmond answered. "All over the world."

That brought another look of incredulity. "And somehow no one's ever found one before us?"

"... I don't think that's true."

"Oh?"

_If I can get to the Observatory, then I'll be the richest man in the world. Caroline will be happy for that._ Desmond shook his head, sensing another partition in his mind. He didn't want to explore it, not now; he'd rather not have that many in his head as it was. "When I was at Abstergo, Vidic talked about silencing discoveries made by non-Templars. And I'm sure Abstergo has dug up plenty."

"The things they must know," Shaun muttered, the bright look in his eyes usually associated with secrets and decryption. Desmond remembered belatedly that Shaun was a hacker, too, like Rebecca, and it had been his curiosity at other people's secrets that had obliquely brought him to the Assassins.

"Regretting throwing in with us?" he asked.

"Hah! No," Shaun said, but that curiosity was still there, still hungry. "Just looking forward to when we can finally trounce those bastards so I can dive into their archives."

An hour later Rebecca was finally finished with her coding, and they were piling into the truck and beginning the three and a half hour drive down to the city. Said city was still a mess, even two weeks after the storm had hit. They had stopped off for gas early, and it became obvious that even with whatever the governor had done to reduce strain on the gas stations the lines were still _ridiculously_ long as people bought gas for their cars or their generators or chainsaws. People everywhere were complaining about living without the normal comforts: water, showers, clean clothes, home-cooked food. Desmond found it amusing in a dark corner of his mind, pulling up different memories of Altaïr who would live months on the road with travel rations _in the desert_ and the scent of sweat everywhere, or Ezio after the attack on Monteriggioni, fresh in Rome with no money to speak of and trying to survive before he could build the Assassin's guild.

The roads were bad but no longer terrible. The linemen and tree men had cleared most of the roads, but dead branches, root-balls or trees, and tree trunks still littered the sides of the roads, just... _left_ there until all the emergencies were taken care of.

The tunnels into the city were miserable. The smell of car oil and gasoline and other scents nobody wanted to guess at were everywhere. The subways were still closed, some of the storm surge and toxic fumes of water had damaged rails and electric boxes. A tiny Connecticut radio station was giving addresses to online interactive maps to see how the power restoration was working, Rebecca had it open but it looked like the Nutmeg state was in good condition – except for the coast of course. Jersey was a different beast all together, Governor Chris Christie finally breaking his shit-talking badass persona to be personable to his constituents and even – to the apparent shock of the political world – saying good things about the President when Obama came to the state, even hugging him.

They checked into a Motel 6 right at the edge of Queens, and soon the four had separated to do different tasks, and Desmond was alone in his room looking out the window, local news giving his ears white noise as he started to really realize he was about to do field work.

Would the Bleeding Effect be enough? He had handled himself well enough in the escape from the loft back in Italy, but he'd had Lucy with him to cover his back; Rebecca would be keeping him hidden from the internet and Shaun would be monitoring police and security feeds, and God knew his father considered himself too important to go out in the field. The building they needed to break into was near the Freedom Tower, and Desmond would be climbing it. In some ways it was like putting on old shoes, he knew the movements, he'd _lived_ the movements, as Altaïr climbed the Umayyad Mosque, and the cathedral in Acre, any of the watchtowers in Salah ad-Din's kingdom, Ezio's ascent of the Castel Sant'Angelo, and Ayasofya. He knew the sensations, the mental preparations, the anticipation. Only instead of living it passively through an ancestor, he was about to do it actively, as himself. Had the crane from the Freedom Tower been fixed? He could still remember the footage of it swinging back and forth as all hell broke loose during Sandy. Then he remembered it was the fourteenth, over two weeks since the storm, it _must_ have been fixed by now.

… Would it be fixed enough?

The thought chilled him. Would he die during this?

Except he couldn't afford to die, as his father had always said, the fate of the world depended on _surviving_. All sorts of memories started to flit back and forth in his mind, as he thought back on the hardass mentor that drilled and drilled and _drilled_ back at the Farm. William was already in that mindset, giving tacit orders and expecting them to be done. Now that he thought about it, the parallel was amazing.

But this wasn't a training exercise, it was real. He could really die.

… Any last words?

Desmond looked around, suddenly acutely aware that he was alone. He turned off the TV, the noise bugging him now, and he looked around for pen and paper, something to write down. Nothing. Frowning, he considered asking Shaun, but the Brit was even more acerbic that usual and he didn't feel like getting his verbal ass handed to him. Then, all at once, he smacked his head for being an idiot and forgetting what century he lived in.

He pulled out his phone, fiddling with the menus and the options, until he found one that might look right.

"Okay, uh, hope this is on," he stared at the screen, frowning and hoping he was interpreting the icons right. "... don't think I've ever used this phone more than a few times to record anything, uh..."

Screw it. He needed to talk.

"Hey Dad," he said softly. God, where to begin? "So, ah, we're all here in New York at the Motel – it's Queens actually – in Astoria near the NQ. Rebecca's off getting batteries for something, and Shaun's in his room doing whatever Shaun does... and, ah, you're out getting some food. Me?"

He frowned, trying to figure out how to put his thought into words. "Well, I'm supposed to be getting ready to break into some offices in the Financial District. Feels just like prepping for one of your old training drills, actually..." He smiled at the memories. Life had been so simple then; but then, the more things change the more they stay the same. The world was darker now, more complicated, but it was still the same. "Ten years go by," he said, "and then you show up, and it's like... it's like I was never gone, and we're right back to the ball-busting, and the conspiracies, and the paranoia. Only this time I believe you. I believe every word... you know I don't even think you know the half of it."

He remembered the complex gamble Robert de Sable had played to turn everyone against the Assassins, the deep games Al Mualim had played with _everyone_. He remembered the years-deep conspiracy of Rodrigo Borgia, and the ambition of Cesare, and the complexity of Ahmet. He remembered the history Clay had taught in his broken way, the history of the Pieces of Eden, of how the Templars had morphed into Abstergo and overthrew entire countries that were too liberal for their liking. So much was inside his head, so many memories, so many partitions – _lives_ – and so many emotions. "I don't think you know how much I have seen," he said softly. "How much I have learned in just a few weeks. _Everything_ really.

"I feel like... like I've lived a thousand years. Or ten thousand maybe." He knew there was more inside him that just Ezio, Altaïr, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton. There was Sef and his daughter, Flavia, Sofia Sartor, Haytham and his father Edward. He knew they were all in his head, and he knew it wouldn't take much to open them up, dive into their memories. The Animus made it easier, but if he wanted to, _really_ wanted to, he could reach into his mind and open up those memories himself. All their memories were locked away in his head, he knew how to access them, how to create the partitions in his mind to protect himself. But it was all _there_, and he had no idea how to articulate it.

"It's impossible to explain," he said finally, "but when you see that much of the world through the eyes of so many... you can't help but be sad to see all these incredible, intelligent people fight the same battles and make the same mistakes over and over again." Altaïr had to learn the Creed from scratch – _twice_ – because his arrogance had cost him so much: Kadar and Abbas. Ezio learned the Creed over the course of a _lifetime_, and all the others had to learn the same way: the _hard_ way. Through making mistakes and breaking rules and suffering terribly. However enlightening the Creed was, the path to learning it was fraught with despair. "Because culture and knowledge and history... these things, they aren't passed on through our genes... every kid on earth needs to relearn the basics. How to live, how..." he frowned again, looking for words. "How to survive, how to stand up for... for what's right... but so much is lost in the transfer... so much is added every generation. It's a shame... Over and over, everything must be learned again."

How many times had he been trained now? How many times had he learned the Creed? How many times had he _taught_ the Creed? Rebecca and Shaun, they learned the Creed, lived it, but they didn't _understand_ it like Desmond did, because they didn't have the pile of memories reflecting on the Creed. They didn't have the depth of understanding because they lacked the lives it took to understand it. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't yet understand the Creed, but his very culture lived and breathed it in a way that even Altaïr had not. Who could understand what he was trying to say? Who but someone else who had been in the Animus. Who but...

"I met Clay, Dad," he said. "Clay Kazcmarek. In the Animus. I know him by his Abstergo handle, Subject 16. My, uh, predecessor." He winced at the word. Predecessor didn't cover _half_ of it. "He showed me things. He _passed them_ to me. Just before he died, or got deleted or whatever." As the island was slowly being deleted, as Clay himself disintegrated into light, as his ghost sent one last email to his father saying... nothing and everything. All of it passed into his psyche, into a new partition. "Everything he's learned, everything he'd seen... uh, God, how do I talk about this...?"

How could he explain what happened on the island? On the base testing ground of the Animus? All those conversations, the dithered mutterings, the disjointed soundbites. The _memories_.

He moved on.

"So, uh, I guess you trained him, huh? After I left. He really looked up to you. And now that I've seen through his eyes, I think I understand why." All the things that Desmond resented about his father, Clay had admired: the single-minded focus, the determination, the capacity to sacrifice everything for the greater good. William was a fanatic about the Creed, and he was a fanatic about stopping the Templars. That goal, that had been exactly what Clay needed: a way to _make_ something of his life instead of wasting away like his father did. William had been the father that Clay needed, even wanted, and his admiration had given Desmond a different perspective.

"I'm glad you had him around, even if I wasn't there," he said. A son more like William had wanted, instead of the one he had. He felt hurt and relieved at the same time.

"But the things he showed me," he said into his phone, "unbelievable things. And I nev-"

A phone rang. His phone? The Motel phone? Desmond cursed. "Shit. Back in a second." and he canceled out of the recording, trying to dig through his menus to figure out if the ringing was him or not. It stopped abruptly and Desmond heard Shaun talking. Less than ten seconds later he knocked on Desmond's door.

"They're both ten minutes out," he said, "care to meet them, or are you too busy psyching yourself up for doing field work? It'll be the first time in your life, I heard, it must be driving you batshit crazy."

"Prick," Desmond muttered as he opened the door.

Shaun breezed into his room and turned the TV back on.

"...local utility companies have assured the public that power is being restored as quickly as possible, and experts say they will be completely prepared for the upcoming solar maximum at the end of the year. Disruptions to service are expected to be minimal..."

Shaun turned it off. "If only they knew," he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (looks left, looks right) I think... I think we're finally done with exposition. Huzzah! No more explaining extra things in author's notes instead of talking about the chapter itself! Wheee!
> 
> And we begin of course with Connor/Ratonhnhake:ton. It will take a while for him to get used to his settler name, and it won't be uncommon for him to "go back" to Ratonhnhake:ton in moments of high emotion. We also see the first display of how warped his childhood has made him. It's sort of hinted at in Connor's fight animations and some of the Noah Watts (Connor's VA) interviews that Connor is a little bit of a beserker. We saw that briefly when he fought the brigands meeting Achilles, but this is a better example of it. In order for his 6 yr old mind to comprehend what happened to him, he labeled Charles Lee and the Templars as demons - not metaphorically but literally, he doesn't see them as humans and therefore has no qualms about killing them. Many people will point this out to him over the course of the fic and it's one of the major branches of his character arc.
> 
> Also, Faulkner is captain of the Aquila. There was no feasible way of making it make sense that 14 yr old Connor becomes the captain of the ship, and with all the land missions Connor does why would the crew want a guy who is so rarely at sea? Faulkner was the obvious choice, though Connor will certainly earn his place later on in the fic.
> 
> And, more importantly, Desmond. His sequences in AC3 are big enough that they actually take two chapters to cover, and what is obvious to all now is that the cell phone recordings from Black Flag make an appearance here. How could we not... just... Desmond...! Everything here is just the wind up, because:
> 
> Next Chapter: Desmond is a badass. It's about freaking time.


	8. A Breaking Present

Rebecca arrived, William soon after her, and they began to plan out the mission.

"Listen up," William said, callously taking charge. "The artifact is in an office penthouse in lower Manhattan. At this time of night, direct infiltration is going to get you noticed. I think we're better off having you drop in from above." He tossed a backpack to Desmond, Rebecca quick to explain it was a parachute – the extreme sports enthusiast briefly explaining how it worked, shucking it on Desmond and pointing out the pulls and how to steer. When she was done she pinned a remote camera.

"It'll provide us with a feed while you're on mission. And this will let us talk to each other." She handed him an ear clip of some kind, which he put on. He knew better than to ask how their transmissions would be masked.

And all too soon, they were parked six blocks away from the Freedom Tower, and Desmond walked into the lower floor, taking the elevator up and up, eventually to the incomplete floors, and finally to a lift. It was almost midnight, and once in the lift he shrugged his hood off briefly to wipe his head. The security hadn't even blinked at him, just checked his courier ID that Shaun had faked and sent him up to the office. He kept his hood down from the cameras, but now the real work began. He poked at the remote camera.

"Can you hear me?" he asked, moving from it to his ear piece. "Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three."

"_Yup_!" Rebecca's voice chirped cheerfully. "_I've got picture. Running diagnostics... Perfect! I've got a nice, strong signal. Just a heads up – there's no elevator access from here on out. You'll have to get up there the old fashioned way._"

"Not a problem," he said. An anticipatory grin bled through his face, and he pulled his hood up. Now the fun began.

He moved past a generator and darted up a ladder he had seen earlier, up to a catwalk that lead to a scaffold that gave him room to hop onto a pipe, leading to more generators and pipes. His heart-rate stayed level as he hopped to an incomplete set of metal framing, likely a wall in the future, and to another catwalk. Beyond it was half-hung ductwork that could just take his weight. He was starting to get into the rhythm of it now, and he was thrilled that it wasn't an ancestor doing this, it was _him_. He hopped and leapt and swung through a series of i-beams before taking a leap up to a support bridge that had been lowered temporarily, climbing its slats and hoisting himself up to a large, cavernous space. He landed on a set of scaffolding that wrapped around the entire room, framing only just beginning to divide up the space into the different offices and hallways. He made his way around the perimeter, trying to figure out where to go from here.

He made his way around a massive shelving system, construction materials littered haphazardly about, and spying a partially closed aluminum grating – most likely to another lift, and he moved to slide under it.

"_Oh, that's a-_" Shaun started to say as Desmond suddenly felt a ridiculous gust of wind and a _holy shit he was outside and the fall was going to fucking kill him!_

His hands dug into the grating, yelping as he stopped and his heart jumped into his throat.

"_Aw,_" Shaun said. "_Hold still. That's a lovely view, take a picture._"

"Seriously Shaun," Desmond said, his voice shaky as he stared out at the towers he was above and level to, "fuck you." Christ, how high up was he? He glanced down through the grating and decided immediately that he didn't want to know.

He took a deep, shuddering breath; a less than sane giggle bubbling up his throat as he mentally acclimated from the safety of being _inside_ to the terror of being _outside_. Altaïr and Ezio had never been _this_ high, and he had to work through his rigid grip on the grating, convincing himself he was safe enough to let go.

To his right was a crane. Actually, it was _the_ crane that had been hanging by a thread during the storm, reattached, lights obnoxiously on and looking like Sandy had never happened. Its resilience gave Desmond some piece of mind, and with a deep breath he stood up. He closed his eyes, calling on the confidence of Altaïr, counting his heartbeats and thinking about swordplay the meditative quality of practice, reaching into his mind for the eagle that lived there, the trace of First Civ DNA that existed in him and letting the eagle thrill at the height he was at.

Yes. He was an eagle. This was his home.

This was the task that had been assigned to him.

Rolling his shoulders and hips, Desmond leapt up to the support beams of the crane, grabbing with ease and slowly shifting his weight. He was in the lee of the wind, giving him ample time to work his way up and through an access to the crane itself. Desmond peered out at the sprawling metropolis, lips pursed into a thin line and looking about. The building that was his objective was not here, and so he needed to climb higher. He glanced at the crane and saw it was facing the modern tower, giving him plenty of hand and foot holds. Nodding, he leapt up with ease, and soon he found a rhythm of climbing the structure of the crane. Desmond was feeling more confident now, his mind back where it needed to be, and he leapt from the crane to a nearby i-beam without even a thought of how dangerously high up he was. A gust of wind blew through him, he hadn't realized winds this high up were so strong, and he waited until the beam had stopped swaying before he moved along its length to a series of i-beams sticking out of the tower, yet to be trimmed down to size.

Down to another i-beam, waiting for the wind, and then to a small grated ledge. From there, the protective wrap around the tower had a small break for yet another massive i-beam, and Desmond climbed it, cords, piping, anything that would get him higher. The wind was whipping through him constantly now; he could easily imagine how it was strengthened during the super storm to put that one crane off its supports. The thrill of fear started to leak in at that thought and he opened up the eagle partition again to shut it off.

At last, however, he finally made it to flat ground.

"Jesus," he muttered, moving deeper into the safety of _terra firma_ and taking a minute to rest his hands and arms. The strain on his upper body had been phenomenal.

"_Look on the bright side – no security to worry about,_" Rebecca said lightly, trying to make him feel better.

"_And on the not-so-bright side,_" Shaun added, "_the slightest misstep means you're effectively... paste._"

"_Shut up, Shaun!_"

Desmond laughed in spite of himself, and rolled to his feet.

He explored the floor he was on. Unlike below, where the rooms and halls were easy to figure out from the framing, here it looked like one massive storage dump-all, he had to roll under giant spools for which he had no idea what they were for, over piles of uninstalled drywall, electrical wires and chords that seemed to hang everywhere. Eventually he made his way up to a second level, and then up to a third. Flooring was less consistent here, he was clearly at the bleeding edge of construction; he hopped from flooring to i-beams and back again before he saw another i-beam hanging out over open air. He took a deep breath, thinking _eagle_.

Desmond made the leap, pulling himself up and counting heartbeats as the swinging slowed. Once it was mastered, the assassin jumped to another exposed i-beam and then up to another level. The flooring was secure here and beyond he could see another crane.

"_Almost there, Desmond,_" Rebecca said. "_Once you reach the top of the lit-up crane, you should be high enough to make the jump._"

Desmond pursed his lips. "_Should_?" he asked pointedly.

"_It'll be fine. Don't worry,_" Rebecca said. "_You know I always say that._"

"_Well – you might want to worry a little,_" Shaun countered. "_I'm pretty sure she was high when she was running the numbers._"

"_Goddamnit Shaun! What the fuck is your problem?_"

"_A joke. It was a _joke_!_" the Brit said. A pause, then. "_Or was it?_"

Bastard. Desmond climbed up the crane, the eagle in his mind having shown him the rhythm, and slowly he ascended above the bones of the tower, the vertical beams just falling away as he made his way higher and higher and higher. He stopped at the top, just looking around, tracing the black line of the Hudson River and picking out the different buildings. He could just make out the Statue of Liberty, still standing after the storm, and something about the symbolism of that made him think of 9-11. John Stewart of the _Daily Show_ had a breakdown on camera; Desmond was still new to TV at the time, but the thing he remembered most was the comedian saying that with the towers down, he could see the Statue of Liberty. Desmond felt like he understood, in a small way. Mission though this may be, he had just done something phenomenal.

He had beaten Altaïr and Ezio, and Ratonhnhaké:ton. None of his ancestors had done a climb like _this_. Pride filled him a little bit, and he agreed with Shaun. It _was_ a lovely view. He had done it himself, under his own power, and had pulled confidence and identity from not from Altaïr or someone else but from _himself_. If done over again he knew he could do it himself, and the confidence that gave him made him smile. He had _accomplished_ something. Everything in his life had brought him up to this point, but his feelings were now reflected by his deeds. He was an Assassin.

He was an _Assassin._

He pulled out his camera and took a quick selfie, preserving this feeling he had. He didn't want to forget it, and he didn't want it washed away into his genes for future generations. He wanted it for himself, to look at when times were down, to remember this feeling of accomplishment, to know that _he had done this_. The days of being a "baby assassin" were over. So were his painful teen years, so were his struggles to find his place. He was home, here, on top of the Freedom Tower that he had climbed under his own power, and he was never going back. The future may be uncertain, but for now he had absolute confidence in the present.

Rebecca could barely be heard over the wind, but her voice was clear.

"_Jump when you're ready, but wait for my signal to open the chute. Timing's really important here. Too soon or too late and you'll miss the building._"

"You're the expert," Desmond said. He took a deep breath, standing to his full height, the wind whipping around him, savoring the moment.

And then he leapt. Perfect form.

The wind blew around him and he could have been anywhere, Syria, Italy, Kanataséhton. All at once the Leap of Faith took on a new meaning, a sense of place that was anywhere, and he was one with the Creed.

"_Now! Open your chute now._"

The moment ended all too soon, and Desmond fumbled for the release, hearing the great wavy sound of his chute opening before his fall was abruptly abbreviated, and he was reaching up to grab the guidance handles to angle his much slower fall to the helicopter landing pad that had been his target. Once he detached, he fell into a tight roll, pulling up to watch the chute just drift away on the winds. Unbuckling his pack, he left it on the helipad. If things went well, he would just walk out of the building. The adrenaline in his blood started to sag, leaving him slightly twitchy from withdrawal, and he walked slowly to across the landing pad and to an access door that was unlocked. Unbelievable.

Down a hall, through a door, he found the office he wanted and looked around. The power source glowed slightly, immediately drawing his eye to it, sitting on the desk like an expensive paperweight. The absurdity struck Desmond slowly, and he nearly laughed at the thought before walking up to it.

He touched the casing holding the cube, it was just glass. Adjusting the sleeve of his hoodie, he jammed his elbow in, breaking it. Rubbing glass off his elbow, he reached down and picked up the power source. He tensed, waiting for an alarm.

… Nothing.

"That wasn't so bad," he muttered, turning and reaching behind him to stow the trinket aside in his courier pack.

"So."

Damn it. Jinxed himself.

"You must be Desmond." He turned to see a man in the shadows, tall and holding a gun on him. Everything in Desmond's body stiffened. Caught, caught, he'd been _caught_! What would happen now? He swallowed hard.

"Not exactly what I expected. But I guess your kind doesn't have many options these days," the man said, stepping forward, closer to Desmond. Really? The guy has him dead to rights and instead of keeping his distance he's moving into the reaction zone? To the place where the gun would be less effective? Was the guy an idiot? A thrill of hope fired off in Desmond's mind, and he stalled for time.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Ask your father. Now give me that."

Come on, come on, a few more steps. "I don't think so," he goaded.

"Look – I'm not supposed to kill you," the man, blond, said, "but the bossman didn't say anything about fucking you up. So you've got to the count of – "

Perfect.

Desmond grabbed the gun and twisted, the blond man grunting in surprise and jerking around to prevent his arm from being broken, and Desmond threw a punch at the guy. He had a glass jaw, it seemed, he went down in a huff. There was no time after that, however, and he dashed out of the office and to the nearest elevator, keeping his hood down and not even giving the security guard a passing glance as he left. He power walked the six blocks to the van and climbed in. Only once the van was on 87 going back north into upstate New York did he allow himself to breathe a sigh or relief.

"Who was that?" he asked in a tight voice, adrenaline still leaving his system.

"Daniel Cross," William said, eyes locked on his iPad.

And? "So who the hell is Daniel Cross?" he demanded, frustrated.

Shaun turned from his eyes from the road briefly. "Believe it or not, he used to be an Assassin. _The_ Assassin, the way I've heard it told. But it turned out that he was a sleeper agent for Abstergo, trained to infiltrate and bring down the organization."

"How did he know you were there?" William asked. "We could be compromised. That's a problem."

"I doubt it," Shaun replied. "They must have caught me snooping inside their network and sent Cross to see what we were after. If they were aware of our current location, we'd know – guns blazing and all that. Though I will say this – it doesn't bode well for future expeditions."

"I'll set up some cameras topside once we're back," Rebecca said. "If anyone shows up we'll see it." She rubbed her face, hiding it behind her hands. She contorted herself in the car seat to bring one of her legs up, pressing her forehead against it, shutting out the world. She had been doing that more and more recently. Desmond glanced at Shaun and saw that he was watching her, too, worry tightening his eyes.

The drive was quiet after that. They moved to back roads once they hit Albany, and by then the sun was coming up. Rebecca was reclined in the seat, sleeping. Desmond considered joining her, but a hand touched his shoulder.

"Son?"

Desmond turned.

William had the most curious look on his face, an expression that Desmond thought couldn't exist on it: hesitance. "I..." he started, but the words failed. Desmond had never witnessed this before, and he watched in wide-eyed fascination. William licked his lips and tried again. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have lashed out like that. Before. Hitting you was wrong. You have to understand I've never been very good at this. At _parenting. _Never mind that we live rather..." he frowned, struggling for words, "extraordinary lives."

It was just like Desmond when he had been recording his message, lost on his phone somewhere, struggling to find words. Sympathy welled in him, and he leaned back in his seat.

"Yeah," he said softly. Extraordinary lives... "I kinda liked my ordinary one," he said gently, hoping to have a real conversation.

"You can't escape who you are, Desmond," William said in a clipped tone.

Of course not. God forbid having a meaningful talk. Desmond prickled at the stern voice. "So I've noticed," he said in a flat tone.

"Look, it's silly for us to go back and forth like this." his father said in a dismissive voice. Desmond's hackles rose but William rose a hand to forestall the comeback. "I admit," he said, "I did a shitty job raising you. I apologize, I'm sorry. But it's important you understand it didn't come from a bad place."

That... that made sense to Desmond, and he held his tongue, letting him continue. "You're my son. I love you. I guess I was so busy trying to make sure nothing bad happened, I didn't..." his words faltered. He rubbed his stubble and pushed through it, "consider the consequences. Truce?"

It was the first time William Miles had ever _given_ anything. From his heart. In earnest. Desmond nodded. He couldn't call things between them good, but it was a start.

An hour later they were still on the road. The ripped apart branches and leaves were nowhere near as prevalent, and the drive had gotten a lot smoother. Sort of. The suspension of the van was still total shit, but now Desmond could pretend the roads were smooth. He looked out the windshield, Shaun still driving and Rebecca in the passenger seat, staring at nothing. Something was up with her, but Desmond didn't know what. Well, what aside from everything else that had been thrown at them. He leaned back in his seat, considering napping; his eyes were starting to burn for being up so long. Even his father had put down his touchscreen and was leaning back, but the older man's eyes were locked on something in his hand, a wallet, thumbing a picture. What...?

Oh.

His mother. When was the last time he'd thought of her? His imprisonment in Abstergo? God...

"I can't believe it's taken me so long to ask," he said. "But – how's Mom? She's not..." he couldn't bring himself to say it. He remembered Vidic talking about attacking the Farm, and understood the wealth of power Abstergo had.

"No, no," William said quickly, his voice almost soft. "Your mother's fine. We decided it would be better if we split up for this job."

A wry chuckle. "Always assuming the worst," he said.

"Hmm. For good reason."

"Can I at least say hi to her?" Desmond asked. Let her know he was all right. Let her know he loved her, apologize for being such a jerk as a teenager, let her know...

"I'm sorry," William said, back to being a hardass. "It's too risky. Maybe when we're done."

Maybe when we're done. _Maybe when we're done_. Desmond had heard that all his childhood. It was code for not ever, because they were never done. Bitterness soaked into him again.

"Right," he responded. "When we're done."

When they finally arrived Rebecca all but disappeared into the cave, going to the camp to pick up cameras and other paraphernalia to start securing their location. She didn't say a word. Shaun was soon after her, back to the door and his historical archives and whatever else a Shaun Hastings did in the wild. Desmond was alone with his father as they began taking the bought food and carting it down to the cave. Desmond was tired; he'd been up over twenty-four hours planning for the mission and he was looking forward to collapsing in his sleeping bag. He saw Juno's ghost, high up at a station, and he suddenly found himself remembering Lucy.

Lucy...

All the things Juno showed him had flooded his mind; her betraying them, but also trying to show them kindness, trying to stay true to herself even as the her world fell apart around her. She wanted to have it both ways, to have the Assassins and Templars work together. Could it even work? Had it even been done?

"Have..." he started to say but stopped. He glanced at William, his father giving him a measured look. "Have we ever tried to make peace with the Templars?"

He shrugged in response. "Throughout our history, there have been moments. Several, in fact. But. It's impossible. There are existential differences. Insurmountable. If there were to be unity, it wouldn't be a truce so much as a submission."

"But knowing what's about to happen... Wouldn't it make sense to try and talk to Vidic? Come to an arrangement? Even if it's only temporary?" Abstergo had so much power at their fingertips, to use it to prevent the solar flare, to keep the world safe. Nobody knew what was beyond that god-forsaken door, and Desmond sure as hell didn't trust Juno for it to be completely _good_. Her contempt for humanity, for Desmond himself, was too strong not to.

"We'd all be so busy watching our backs," William replied. "Nothing would be accomplished. Imagine that, we're more productive at war than at peace. Sad, isn't it."

"Well, have we tried... sending in someone? Doing to them what they did to us with Lucy? Or Cross?"

William shook his head. "We have. And it's never worked. We either sent in people who were either too weak, and found themselves turned – or too strong, and were unable to carry out the charade. The Templar philosophy is very seductive, it's just so _easy_ to say that people are beneath you, to think you're special, elevated, destined to take care of them. It's easy to submit to someone else's rule, someone else's orders. Those that _can_ resist it, however, resist on every level imaginable. It seems there is no middle ground."

It hurt to think that way, to just write off the Templars wholesale. He'd seen Lucy's intentions, her gamble to play both sides, the guilt she felt in what she did. And, dick though he was, he saw that Haytham was a Templar only because he wanted to take care of people, to guide them as he had been as a child. His intentions were good. He, Lucy, Abstergo, they all wanted peace. Even Vidic said as much during his captivity. The Assassins wanted it too. "I just feel like we all want the same thing."

Another shake of the head. "We use the same words," William said, "but that's all they are: words. In the end, it all comes down to freedom. We seek it. They detest it. And so there's never an end to the fight. Not until one side is completely gone."

But... "Is that even possible?"

"Probably not," William replied. "Our two groups have existed in one form or another since, well, forever. If we could have gotten along, we would have by now. This war is eternal. But," he added, seeing the look on Desmond's face, "things can be better than they are. And that's something."

So fatalistic. So pessimistic. It wasn't like William didn't understand it, especially now, but how could a guy live with that kind of attitude? How could anyone live believing the worst at all times, see only doom and gloom wherever he went. Always as a child, it was: "_If they find us, we're dead. There's no hope._" "_If you fail here, imagine what the consequences would be if this were a real mission. You'd be dead, and we would fail._" _"You can't afford to slack around, the stakes are too high, get your shit together." _"_Don't just assume someone will come around and rescue you. You have to assume you're dead to rights, that no one is coming, because they probably aren't._" Desmond had always thought that was because William was such a self-serving prick he'd never bother sending a rescue mission. It was why he had been so shocked to hear the rescue mission at Abstergo, and felt sick to hear it fail so badly. Had William done that? Sacrificed so much to save him? Or was it someone else's order, because William was too busy to spare a thought for his son? Jesus, what did the old man even think when Desmond ran away? Did he just assume Desmond gone, compromised, dead? Did he...?

"Did you look for me, Dad? When I was gone?"

"Every day." Utter conviction, clarity in his voice. Desmond couldn't believe it, stared incredulously at his father as they put the food in the coolers. William caught the glance. "I mean it," he added. "Every night I'd look. Searching for your name – or variations of it – hoping you'd slip up. Abstergo only found you first because they had better access. A few more days and it would have been me."

That... That...

Desmond smiled.

"Well, I'm here now," he said softly.

"And I'm glad," William responded, nodding.

The rest of the day was spent settling back in. Desmond didn't want to go in the Animus right away and instead caught up on his sleep, dreams filled with Lucy and Juno and the events that lead to her death. Memories of Altaïr and Maria on Cyprus, Ezio and Sofia, Haytham and Ziio, all lumped together into a tumbled mess, and he awoke in the evening, Rebecca sleeping next to him in her own bag, Shaun nowhere to be seen and William puttering around on a computer. God, did the man ever sleep?

Desmond got up slowly, stretching and stumbling over to the butane cooker.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

Maybe some exercise after that.

William joined him soon after, hoping to get his own cup. He looked at his father, realizing they were talking more now in the last day than they ever did when he was a kid. Pressure of saving the world? Or were they finally connecting for real? Desmond almost didn't want to push his luck, he was happy to learn that his father actually _did_ love him, missed him even, wanted to look out for him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to press further. Knowing those things and resolving the bitterness and resentment were two different beasts, and he didn't want the latter to overcome the former again. Still, he wanted to try. The need to be closer was pressing on him. He tried a softer topic first.

"Do you think Lucy regretted what she was doing?"

William looked up. Apparently he was surprised at their extended conversations as well. He poured his coffee. "I used to think I knew her well, but clearly, that wasn't the case. So I can't give you an honest answer."

Not what he was hoping for. "She seemed so sincere, though," Desmond said. "Like she really wanted to make a difference." The things he saw...

"Yes, well," William said dismissively, "when I first met him, I thought the same thing about Cross."

… Yeah. It...

"It just keeps happening over and over again," Desmond muttered, sipping his coffee. So many things repeated. The more things change the more they stay the same – that didn't just apply to one lifetime, it applied to all of history. It all was one big cycle, one thing after the next and then back to the first. People betrayed people and learned the damage they wrought, others sought revenge over and over until they were either destroyed by it or learned to see beyond it, others desperately tried to protect what little they had to have it stripped away from them over and over. And people like Lucy tried to stay true to themselves and failed because they didn't want to take sides. Everyone had seen it, everyone had lived it, and everyone would do it again. Everything repeats.

"What does?" his father asked, eyes sharp.

"... Everything..."

William straightened. "Don't get weird on me, Desmond."

…? Did he think...? Oh...

"No," Desmond said quickly. "It's fine. I'm fine. Don't worry. I just... There's a lot in my head right now. Clay helped me sort through it, but... it's still a lot."

William said nothing, going back to his work. He glanced back at his son, though, and Desmond decided to take that as a good sign.

He drank his coffee slowly, absorbing this newer, slightly gentler, relationship with his dad. He was working on his second cup, considering an exercise routine to get his blood pumping before figuring out what to do for the day (re: how long he could put off going in the Animus), evening, whatever, when Shaun came in from somewhere, shaking Rebecca slightly to wake her up before joining Desmond for a cup of coffee. "Good morning all, happy to see us all up and about," he said with false cheer. "I've pushed in a new batch of entries focused on the Kanien'kehá:ka. In order to ensure accuracy, I actually turned to a friend on the outside, but don't worry! He thinks it's for a presentation, so we're in no danger of being discovered. I've also been researching that glass sphere that Connor-"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Desmond corrected.

"-used for his spirit journey. It's clearly first civilization in origin, it appears to function as some sort of temporal calculator. It's essentially a crystal ball – but one that actually works; can't be coincidental, all things considered. Which begs the question: are there others out there? I've put the question to the other teams, they have better access to research at this point, seeing as how we're all living like third world refugees at this rate. I've also been doing some digging on Haytham's blades. Still not a hundred percent sure where they came from. My initial instinct was he started out as an Assassin – his father was one, in fact. But it appears dear old Haytham was a Templar from pretty early on. Maybe he took the hidden blades from someone, it's happened before. Anyway, I'd suggest you go see about finding a socket for that power source," he said brightly. "Or we can return to Connor if you prefer. All the artifacts in the world won't mean a thing without the key."

"I vote the power source," Desmond said, looking up. Shaun and eventually Rebecca followed his gaze up to the station where Juno's ghost was. "You see her, right?"

"Yes."

"And that would be an understatement," Shaun said, his tone saying everything. "She's apparently figured out how to communicate with the computers. Got a few messages of gobbledygook until she finally managed a 'Hello World' program. She rather doesn't like us keeping you from your work. Here, see what she's just sent me."

Shaun turned over his touchpad to a laptop, and both Desmond and Rebecca could see the message displayed.

_YOU SHOULD NOT MEDDLE IN AFFAIRS THAT DO NOT CONCERN YOU._

"Looks like Juno's really taken a shine to you," Shaun continued. "I suggest you don't engage her. There isn't time to go down that rabbit hole; it's sure to prove a badger's den, besides. This whole experience is, actually. That final door; salvation, was it? But for us? Who knows. Here we sit – working towards something we know next to nothing about, but it's our only chance. There's that, I suppose."

"Then we better get going," Desmond said. "Let's power that station up."

Left of their campsite at the back of the temple were a wounded set of stairs, and Desmond climbed them hoping they led to the station. He felt not small amount of trepidation over powering this place up. If Juno was as intent as her email (Christ, she was sending _email_? How fucked up was _that?_) was any indication then he couldn't completely trust what was behind that door. Shaun had it right: salvation, but for who? Desmond was becoming more and more convinced that it wasn't for them, not for humanity. But, having said that, he couldn't imagine how anything in this temple benefited the First Civilization. _They_ were all dead. What good could come of whatever Juno had planned? What was beyond the door?

Beyond the stairs was a two-level room. A contraption of some kind in the middle, lit up from the first power source. A generator? An experiment? A food vendor? He started to approach it but was stopped by a voice.

"_In the beginning_," Desmond startled, jerking around to see Juno's translucent form, "_when we thought we could be saved, we sought to face the sun's wrath and contain it_." Her hologram or whatever moved to the contraption Desmond was heading for, an orange hologram of nebulous energy, the solar flare of doom, filled the cavernous room. "_Four towers would be built,_" she said, holograms illustrating her point blinking to life. The solar flares' energies pushed against the towers, but could not get past them, demonstrating their ability. "_To pull her fury into this place and dispel it. But even with all we knew, with all we had, it would take too long. A thousand years we could labor and still the work would not be done_." The four towers disappeared to just one, half complete, much like the Freedom Tower he had just climbed. "_The first tower was never completed, the project abandoned,_" Juno explained, looking at Desmond. "_We moved on. But while we labored on other endeavors, a few returned. They thought to automate the process. Metal might finish what flesh could not._" She turned away and disappeared. Desmond blinked, the hologram over – the program complete. Or was it just a hologram? He bit his lip and pressed on. Attached to him indeed...

"Did anybody see that?" he asked through his earpiece. "Is my camera on?"

"_Yeah, hell of a sight_," Shaun said. "_Like bad tele._"

At the far end of the room were more stairs; he ascended, but the landing ended abruptly, time pulling it back down to the lower level. Sighing, Desmond leapt out over the edge of the landing, to a futuristic crossbeam of some kind. He could feel energy humming inside it, and he tread _very_ carefully across it, around the artifact from below, and then up to a higher level. Beyond he saw the station, and he started to walk towards it, only to be interrupted again.

"_If we could not meet the sun's cruel embrace, perhaps we might rebuke it. Already we could generate the fields – to protect us in times of strife._" Juno was there again, walking passed Desmond before turning to him, looking him in the eye. A bracelet-like hologram appeared, followed by a man in First Civ clothes wearing it as he fired a weapon, demonstrating the field she was talking about. "_But these were small and simple things. To replicate them on a scale the size of a world..._" The planet appeared again, blue light protecting it, but disappearing. "_We lacked the energy to make it so. Half the world, they said, then. It is better than none at all. We tried. Again, we failed. A quarter, they asked. Even this, we could not do. A sixth! An eighth! A tenth, they cried!_" her voice rising with the desperation of the people, before the dull recitation continued. "_The answer was still the same. Perhaps in time, a city might be spared. But it was time we did not have. So we moved on._"

The program ended, the ghost disappeared, and Desmond was left wondering what Juno was trying to tell him. She wasn't the type for a history lesson, so what was she getting at?

He moved to the station, pushing the power source in and watching dimly as more of the temple powered up, a bridge beginning to form beyond the door and another station lighting up. He felt uncomfortable, looking at the future. He hated being this woman's pawn; he hated not knowing just what they were opening.

He moved back down to the camp, trying to puzzle through his questions. Shaun wasn't at the other end of the earpiece anymore, meaning he was likely off informing William of Juno's personal visits. He didn't relish the idea of talking about that. He didn't relish _any _of this, the deadline, the stakes, the door, the possibilities, any of it.

Rebecca was there, by herself, staring off at nothing until she caught sight of him. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair even messier than normal. Had she even slept?

"... Was it weird seeing Cross?" she asked, her voice rough. Not from yelling or singing, Desmond thought, perhaps from crying. She hadn't been the same since Lucy. None of them had, really, but unlike the rest of them she didn't try to hide it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, sitting next to her. She looked at him in confusion for a brief moment before her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh. It's different for you," she said. "You don't know what happened, I guess." She stared off at nothing again, thoughts far away. After a long pause, she continued. "For a long time he was... important to us. He was a different person."

"Shaun said he was a sleeper agent," Desmond said gently. "Like Lucy."

Rebecca shook her head, hunching forward. "It was different," she said. "She made a choice. But Cross... If you read the files, Abstergo just..." her voice broke off, eyes staring at something hard. Desmond realized she was shaking slightly, her breath coming out in short puffs. "They did terrible things to him..." her voice was barely audible. Desmond worried that she might have a panic attack, and he put a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her attention.

"Rebecca?"

She looked at him, her eyes watery and haunted. "You're lucky," she said, eyes flicking to William. "We all are. We have people who care about us. Who look out for us. He was all alone – and the people he thought he could trust, they used him."

"... Did you know him?" he asked, keeping his voice soft, gentle. He would never have described her as fragile, Rebecca; she was always rocking or hacking or smiling, the perpetual sunflower of the team in stark contrast to Shaun's sarcasm and Lucy's determination. Now, though, with the smile wiped away, Desmond realized she had been through as much as he had. Even more. He didn't need to guess how fucked up she was inside. He was, too. They all were.

"No..." she said finally. She looked away. "But... I knew Hannah."

"Who's that?"

"She tried to help him," she said. "She trusted him. But there was a raid about a year ago... She stayed behind so the others could escape. Tried to reason with him. To see if she could fix things..." she trailed off again, eyes lost in memory.

Desmond swallowed, realizing Lucy wasn't the only person Rebecca had lost in this war. He remembered her contrite joke about offing her boyfriend, the stern lecture he got afterward about how hard it was to kill. How much did she speak from experience? How much did she live? He was almost afraid to ask, but...

"What happened?"

Her face turned into something ugly, painful, she gave a furious glare to Desmond, voice rising. "What do you _think_ happened?" she demanded. "He _killed_ her. That's what he does. That's all he knows how to do. Sometimes, it seems that's all _any_ of us know how to do!"

"Rebecca..."

"I just want to be alone right now," she said, her voice breaking as she stood and walked away, back to the van on some pretext.

"Any luck?"

Desmond looked to see Shaun again, eyes following Rebecca up the steep slope until she disappeared.

"... No."

"I don't know how much more of this she can take."

Desmond sighed. "How much _any_ of us can take," he corrected. "It doesn't help that you use sarcasm as a defense mechanism. She doesn't respond well to it, you know. The last thing she needs is confrontation from outside as well as inside."

Shaun said nothing for a long, long time, before closing his eyes and turning away.

"Shaun..."

"Later Desmond," he replied quickly, walking away and waving a hand. "I'm in the middle of something very important right now. Just... rule. That's a rule. Just follow that as a rule."

Desmond cursed. Could he help anyone?

By evening everyone had weakly come back together. Desmond thought it ironic that he was closer to his father in this moment than he was with either Shaun or Rebecca. He gave both of them meaningful looks, trying to convey everything he wanted to say, but sighed and got back in the Animus, waiting for it to power up. William sat by the station to monitor.

* * *

Almost a year later and Connor still couldn't quite believe how much he had learned in such a short time. The white man's culture was complex, and his behavior often strange, but still Achilles pounded books into his head so that he might learn and understand. When Ratonhnhaké:ton commented that culture for the Kanienke'há:ka was so much simpler, the Old Man simply swatted him on the head, saying it was only easier because Ratonhnhaké:ton had _lived_ it all his life.

The physical lessons seemed to become more and more grueling every week, but Connor welcomed each challenge and took pride in every accomplishment, as it brought him closer and closer to reaching the decades of practice that his father had.

The decades of practice that _Charles Lee_ had.

With Godfrey and Terry's wives, Catherine and Dianna, also came five children. Godfrey and Catherine had the two oldest, a pair of boys only a year apart who were soon sent to Boston. The oldest, Brodie, was the first, leaving only a month after arrival, to work as a shipman. The other, Keith, had left two months prior to apprentice with a mason. Terry and Diana's children were all under ten, one boy and two girls.

Lance was already having the boy, Logan, over showing an interest in wood and Lance was wondering with Terry if he had an apprentice coming in a few years to learn under his other apprentice that he had called up from Boston, a young orphan named Christopher.

But that was the future.

For the moment, Godfrey and Catherine had invited everyone to dinner. Achilles had declined, the change in weather bothering his leg too much for the long trek down the hill and back. Connor did not think the injury was hurting given that Achilles walked the same as he always did, but the Old Man did enjoy his peace and quiet. Connor had almost declined, but Achilles had given him a look, and Connor knew this would be more practice in the culture of the settler.

Dinner had been enjoyable, and conversation lively. Diana had disappeared to tend to the children and Catherine had disappeared to start handling the dishes. At the moment, Terry his eyes a little bleary from the alcohol, asked Lance why he'd left Boston.

"Surely there's more work for you in the city that out here?"

Lance got an energized gleam in his eyes. "Why? _Why?_ Because of the damned British!"

Godfrey and Terry both looked confused. "Did ya break the law?" Godfrey asked, eyes wide.

"_No!_" Lance growled. "The British are walking all over our constitutional rights and damn proud of it!"

"I do not understand," Connor replied.

Lance let out a long sigh. "This is the problem. This is why people don't realize they're losing their liberties one by one! The only ones who can see what's going on are in the cities and the surrounding towns. The further away you are from such a hub of information, the more likely you are to accept being treated worse and worse."

Godfrey chuckled. "Ye'd best be explainin' to we bumpkins."

"Where to even start, Lance leaned back. "I guess it starts with the French and Indian War."

Connor blinked, remembering the stories he'd heard growing up. "Ah, my mother fought in that war."

"Your _mother?!_" the Scotsmen chorused.

But Lance would not be deterred. "It was expensive and dear old King George decided _we_ should pay for it."

"Well of course," Terry answered. "It was fought here as well as Europe. Naturally ye'd have ta pay."

Lance shook his head. "No, we didn't by law."

"But he's the _king_. He can do whatever he wants."

"No he can't," Lance yelled. He took a breath. "Look, many of the colonies have charters, constitutions, dating back before this current set up of Parliament. One of the necessary things for our charters was self-governance, since it takes upwards of three months to send word and get a reply."

"Yes," Connor nodded. "Achilles has been explaining this history. A governor is appointed to administer the needs..."

"And state assemblies set up laws, taxes, and all the administration," Lance continued. "But after the war, England was facing bankruptcy. So without talking to the assemblies that _write_ all the taxes, that _collect_ all the taxes and who _knew_ the economics of each colony, dear old King George and his Parliament _ignored_ all that and introduced the Sugar Act back in '64."

Terry scoffed. "Only you city folk need that sweet stuff. We brew our own."

Godfrey slapped Terry on the head.

All of them chuckled.

"Now I didn't pay much attention back then," Lance admitted. "Too busy with my craft and getting by. But Sam Adams saw that the colonies were expected to pay, though we had no say."

"But we've _never_ had a say in taxes," Godfrey interjected. "Even back when Scotland was its own kingdom, common folk _never_ had a say."

Lance let out a sigh of patience. "That's not the case here and hasn't been in over a hundred years. Every city, every town _elects_ their assemblymen. By choosing who represents them, the people have a say. And if the assemblyman doesn't preform like the people he represents want, they can vote for a different assemblyman."

Connor nodded. "Discussion and choosing who represents you is important. For the _Haudenosaunee_, the five tribes meet and debate until an answer is found. Those who go for such a council are the chiefs chosen by the clan mothers, and the clan mothers represent the clan."

"_Yes!_" Lance agreed. "It's about having a say. But in comes King George ignoring all that and expecting us to comply like children because father said so!

"But most people didn't see the damage," Lance continued. "The Sons of Liberty started to form-"

"Bunch of troublemakers from what I've heard," Terry grumbled.

Lance had too much momentum to stop. "But _then_ came the Stamp Act in '65. _Everyone_ was angry then!"

"For stamps?" Terry asked incredulously.

"It wasn't just _stamps_ but for paper goods," Connor interjected, remembering what Achilles had been teaching him.

"And _everyone_ uses paper goods!" Lance said, full of energy. "News sheets, order forms, ledgers, books, letters, money, petitions, _anything_ that needed paper had to have approved paper with a stamp that was more expensive!"

_That_ got Godfrey upset. "_Letters_?! They're expensive enough to send home and it woulda cost _more_?!"

Lance nodded swiftly. "Exactly! I joined with the Sons of Liberty then. Had great fun tarring and feathering a few officials, though Sam Adams didn't approve. He organized boycotts and petitions." Lance leaned back with a gleam in the eye. "Watching Sam Adams speak is a wonder to behold. His father is a preacher and you can hear it in him."

"Achilles mentioned there was unpleasantness as a result of this," Connor said.

"Oh yes," Lance said. "Riots. Violent, ugly riots. Word came that there were riots in _all_ the colonies when they realized how expensive it would be."

"No doubt we'd be part of a scrap like that," Godfrey said to Terry, both wearing identical grins.

Lance shuddered. "I didn't mind some humiliation, but those riots were..." he shuddered again. "Sam Adams kept arguing peaceful protest, _not_ mobs. He kept organizing. The stamp distributor, who came to start giving stamps to 'authorize' the paper to be sold, had his effigy hung from Liberty Tree. Lieutenant Governor Hutchinson's house was ransacked, but come November, the Stamp Act took effect.

"_But_," Lance sat back in satisfaction, "we _won_! The Stamp Act was repealed. So if the colonies talk loud enough and in one voice, the king will listen. Things finally settled down."

Everyone at the table was grinning.

"Pity it didn't last," Lance sighed, his emotions dropping from energetic highs to despair. "In '67 old King George did the same thing. Once again ignoring the assemblies that have been doing their own taxing for a century. The Townshend Acts taxed _all_ our imports. _And_ this time they added a Customs Agency to enforce it, _without our say_!"

Godfrey and Terry grumbled about this. "But they just repealed the Stamp Act, and _then_ they did it again? Didn't they learn?"

Lance nodded enthusiastically. "Massachusetts circulated a petition to protest this, but then the damn _Londoners_ told the colonial governors that if their assemblies so much as _thought_ of signing the petition, to dissolve the assemblies! Massachusetts was told to _rescind_ the letter! Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, all were organizing boycotts over the Townshend acts, the Customs Board couldn't enforce anything, so they called for _military aide_! Warships arrived in Boston and started to forcibly recruit local ships into their tenure." Lance truly had momentum, was sitting at the edge of his seat as he explained the fear and horror of what was going on in Boston as people realized things were escalating because the King wouldn't do what he'd done before and just back down from such a stupid tax.

"The colonies have a lot that Europe demands," Lance looked to the lumberjacks. "We have trees like they _don't_ have in Europe, hundreds of years old and tall enough to reach the sun." Both nodded. "We naturally have all sorts of ship building here. We have furs in high demand, but the colonies don't have enough to support ourselves. We need to buy tea from the Dutch or the English, clothes from the French, the list goes on and on. Paper was one thing, but taxing imported goods would make people like myself, people who make enough to get by and save enough for maybe a luxury here and there, drop into poverty. It was _ridiculous_! The only way I stayed afloat with my apprentices was the demand to buy American, but I had to buy my _tools_ from the British, clothes for apprentices who grew a foot a day from the French!

"The Assembly didn't rescind the letter because we have a _right_ to petition! And our _dear_ governor _dissolved_ the Assembly, not that it did anything. The Assembly kept meeting." Lance was smiling with pride. "The Assembly even met with Assemblies from one hundred towns across Massachusetts to decide what to do with all this... _idiocy_! They put forth a letter explaining that Boston wasn't _lawless_, that sending soldiers wasn't _necessary_, and that it went against our charter, constitutional _rights_!"

Lance sat back heavily. "But it did no good. Regardless, the soldiers arrived that fall. My conservative _Tory_ neighbors had no problem pointing out that my shop was available to billet troops and I was kicked out. I've been wandering Massachusetts looking for a place to set up shop till I finally settled here."

"You have endured much," Connor said. "It sounds as though many have endured much."

Lance nodded.

"And to think," Godfrey gave an ironic laugh, "we used to worry about food back in Scotland. If there be enough after the Lords took what they needed. Here, people worry about _rights_. What an amazing colony."

As the air started to cool, Connor brought Catherine and Diane up to the house to show them the Three Sisters, corn, beans, and squash, asking if they could harvest it as well as their own small fields, for Achilles.

"Of course we'll help," Catherine said, puzzled. "But where will you be?"

"I have not seen my people in three years. I will visit and return before the snows arrive."

Achilles, who had been pushing Connor for so long, acknowledged that a small break might be necessary. "But you _must_ be back before the end of November."

Connor nodded. The quiet year had given Faulkner much time to travel and trade up and down the coastline of the colonies. He often came home with loud, highly exaggerated tales, like protecting a merchant ship the _Henderson_ from privateers off of Virginia, finding a different set of privateers hiding about a lighthouse down in the Carolinas, or hunting down the _Saint James,_ a British privateer who had no qualms about what flag a ship carried up near Nova Scotia. But with all of Faulkner's travels, came a hefty chunk of money to help restore the property as well as pay his sailors who were building small shacks by the rocky beach for when they docked. With the proper funding, Connor had traveled to nearby Salem and found a good horse to use for himself, as opposed to the nag who had certainly seen better days.

Riding had initially not been one of Connor's strong points. Out in the thick forests around his village it was too easy for a horse to slip on loose rock or stumble with the steep mountains. It was easier to walk and some tree groves were so thick a horse would not be able to maneuver through them. But once Connor understood how fast a horse could go he applied himself to learning with greater purpose. He was sixteen now, and Achilles was showing more and more confidence in sending him away from the homestead in order to handle things. With the money that Faulkner brought in, many of the smaller repairs of structure or that required a woodworker, could be done. Unfortunately, they still didn't have the money for plaster, or much of the iron or smithing that was needed, nor were there any craftsmen nearby who could handle that type of work. Still, progress was progress.

His horse, a black mare, powered down the roads through Massachusetts, happy to have the exercise and Ratonhnhaké:ton was thrilled at how much shorter the distance seemed to be with such a powerful animal underneath him. He made excellent time getting to his valley, far faster than he had initially anticipated, and he rode down to his village.

Many of the village turned, surprised to see a newcomer, until he pushed back his hood and displayed his face.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" called out many greetings, and people came out of the longhouses to say hello to their tribesman.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" a familiar voice shouted out in joy. "I am glad for your visit."

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton leapt of his horse to hug his friend. Kanen'tó:kon was taller than last Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen him. Indeed, he wasn't quite so chubby either. Already he was wearing beaded ornaments to indicate his status and what he had learned since last Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen him, and more turkey feathers in his hair.

Ratonhnhaké:ton hugged his dear friend again. "Ah, it has been too long!"

"It _has_! Are you here to stay?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "No. A brief visit is truly all I have. My teacher and mentor wishes me back before the end of November."

Kanen'tó:kon laughed. "Oh, so you follow the white man's calendar now?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton laughed.

A celebration was soon arranged and Ratonhnhaké:ton was sitting with his people, full and happy. He turned to Kanen'tó:kon. "How are things?"

"A good year," Kanen'tó:kon replied, smiling. "Our harvest will be plentiful, our numbers swell, and the forest remains undisturbed."

The white man had not advanced since last Ratonhnhaké:ton was here. Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled. Iottsitíson was correct, he'd be on the right path.

"And how are _you_, brother?" Kanen'tó:kon asked.

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't quite hold back a chuckle. "Kept busy by our enemies. I have learned much that will be necessary, but still more is ahead of me. But the more I learn, the more their power wanes. I am hopeful the land will be free of their influence soon." The way Achilles had been drilling him lately, he had _better_ be ready soon to start hunting down the Templars.

Kanen'tó:kon smiled. "I have kept your place inside the longhouse. It will be there for you when you are ready to come home."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled back.

His visit lasted a week before they sent him off with well wishes and Ratonhnhaké:ton rode back, feeling rejuvenated in a way he hadn't expected. In the back of his head, Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if perhaps he should visit his village more often, but that was a selfish wish. The Templars, the _atenenyarhu_, needed to be defeated first before he could take time for himself. Already, on the ride back, he was pondering what Achilles's next methods of training would be and anticipating how to defeat it.

Cresting the next hill, Ratonhnhaké:ton was surprised to hear a shrill scream, and immediately kicked the flanks of his horse.

Further down the road, a wagon was being overturned, a black couple sprawled on the ground as a result.

"_Animals_!" the black man shouted. "_Stop!_"

The accent was unfamiliar to Ratonhnhaké:ton, but that did not matter, he charged forward.

"Take what you deserve, thief!" one of the three white brutes shouted.

"_Please_!" the woman screamed, "Stop!"

"Shut that darky whore up," another of the white Stone Coats grunted.

The third demon saw Connor's approach but barely had time to react before Connor leapt off the horse and instinctually pulled out his _tamahac_, slamming it into the man's head brutally and letting blood fly.

"What the _bloody_-"

The Stone Coat holding the woman didn't get any further as Connor surged forward, tackling him down and again applying the _tamahac_, crushing in the _atenenyarhu's_ face. The third was wielding some sort of cudgel on the black man, who was on the ground with his arms in front of his face defensively, leaving his torso to be abused. With a fierce growl, Connor leapt, once more smashing his _tamahac_ into a man's head.

The man and woman were still terrified, the woman crying and rushing over to her husband to cradle him. Connor stood stoic, giving them time to gather themselves, and inspected the wagon. It seemed undamaged, but the horse that had been pulling it, a bony thing even older than Achilles' nag, had broken a leg when the cart had been overturned. Connor let out a soft sigh, cradling the horse's head. "_Niá:wen_," he said quietly, and pulled out a knife and slit its neck to let it die as peacefully as possible. Tied behind the cart was a young cow that was pulling and yanking at the rope, trying to get away from the violence. Connor did not know much of cows, as they were not a part of his village, nor the homestead, but he approached as he would a skittish horse, which he _did_ have at least a little experience with.

"Hush now," he said softly, gently patting the white forehead. "The violence is done. No harm will come to you."

The cow didn't exactly settle, but it did start to calm down slowly. By the cart, the black couple also seemed to have settled. Connor walked over cautiously, keeping his hands visible, and sat down at distance so that the pair did not feel crowded. "What happened?" he asked softly.

The woman, tears still flowing down her face, explained. "We were going to a new town to buy some farmland when they claimed us to be cattle thieves. Warren denied them and they attacked us."

The man, Warren, reached up to his wife's face gently, despite the great pain he seemed to be in. "We thank you, stranger, for the kindness, but we have nothing left, to offer."

Connor shook his head. "If a person sees brutality and does nothing, than how can he claim to be a person?" he replied. "I live in a community not far from here. You may heal there, if you wish."

"What kindness is this?" the woman asked, tears once more filling her eyes, though this time for a different reason. "Thank you. We owe you so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now we have a couple of new homesteaders: Warren and Prudence. Note that once again Connor assumed the bigots were just Stone Coat demons to be slayed. It's worth mentioning that the land they were set to buy was most likely a scam, because back in the day it was illegal for African Americans to own land. We noticeably tiptoe around the fact that the homestead land is Achilles'. We had a thin veil of logic but it was just never gotten into. Also, Ratonhnhake:ton visits home - and every time he does it reflects how much has changed - in himself and in the world around him. For now, he's still young, and so only small changes. Next time... well, we'll get there :P
> 
> Honestly though there isn't much to say because the majority of this chapter is about Desmond. Because of how much happens in the later Desmond segments we "fix" his relationship with his father a little fast here. In the game it's supposed to mirror the arch with Connor and Haytham, but there was no way to squeeze it all in, and so most of the conversations happen here. Also note Rebecca. She's not having a good time of this, and it just goes downhill. And also note - Desmond is now officially a badass because he scaled the FREEDOM TOWER on his own. No more milling around in a room unable to interact with anything. No more dreaming of past ancestors, no more running pointlessly around Monteriggioni. No, he is a baby assassin no longer, and it was one of the most fun sequences to write.
> 
> Next chapter: more homestead misadventures, Kanen'to:kon, Boston, and a certain party that's famous in history.


	9. A City's Breaking Point

Connor's horse was not particularly happy to be dragging a wagon, but after a day showed no other complaints. Warren and Prudence Freeman, Connor learned, were originally from islands far to the south that he had never heard of, past the furthest reaches of British territory in the colonies and in a place that was warm all year round. Connor had great difficulty imagining the year without winter, and wondered how one lived without the winter for the land to recuperate. They had decided to come to the British colonies, hearing that slavery was not as strong a trade as it was around the islands. First settling into Virginia, they soon learned that slavery was a strong force, and instead came north, where it was a rare thing. The Freemans had found Boston agreeable and were farming in the Boston Commons and doing well. Unfortunately, Boston was a powder keg, and neither wanted to be there when it exploded, as the tensions of what the British were doing in their taxation without representation caused more debates, more mobs, and more worry. So they had left, seeking to find a new community, only to be treated with instantaneous suspicion and mistrust, the assumption they were of a pair of escaped slaves.

Connor's jaw tightened. Achilles had, with a flat, emotionless voice, explained the economics of slavery and how it worked in the colonies. At the first discovery of the colonies, over a hundred years ago "slaves" was just another name for "indentured servants" who could be black, white, red, color didn't matter. You became a servant... a slave... until you had worked off a debt and were then free. But slavery had evolved. In the southern colonies, the year was warmer longer, making for longer growing seasons and bigger yields of crops. So the southern states found it more... _financially sound..._ to buy slaves and have them do all the work, like horses out in the field. What had once been a plantation where the owner could be black or white, the plantation owners were now only white and the slaves only black, since the people who could be captured were the Africans from tribes deep in the continent who had never seen a white man before. In the northern colonies, however, there weren't vast plantations but small farms. Slaves were people who worked in houses and _because_ they worked in houses, there was more of an understanding that they were people and had more chances of being freed at the owner's death.

However, the institutionalized racism, while rampant and widespread in the south, still had a strong presence in the north, and the north suffered a great deal from simple ignorance as farmers or frontiersman probably never saw a black man in the course of their life. Warren and Prudence had come north from their islands to avoid the slave trade, and while it was by far different up in New England, there were still difficulties to face simply because of the color of their skin.

Connor did what he could to reassure them that they wouldn't face such ugliness at the homestead, apart from one ignorant Scotsman who didn't always pay attention to what he said.

Warren chuckled from the back of the cart. "For people such as us, we welcome simple ignorance."

And that just made Connor's jaw tighten further.

Achilles was outside when Connor drove the wagon up the hill. He had no doubt seen the approach and had come out to greet his return. He said nothing, but simply looked hard at Connor. "You're late."

"It was unavoidable."

Achilles looked to the couple, and saw Warren's ugly bruises. "I suppose so. The way you collect strays we should just make a guest room for all the injured you bring home."

Connor blinked, not expecting that. "Sorry," he said, a flush coming to his cheeks. Even at sixteen this Old Man could make him feel like a cowering four-year-old.

"Don't be," Achilles said. "They'll have my room. I'll take the spare room upstairs."

"But your leg-"

"I can handle stairs just fine, _boy_."

Connor said nothing further to aggravate Achilles's foul mood. Instead, he helped Prudence with getting Warren down and then up the stairs and into the manor.

"You live in such a grand home?" Prudence whispered in awe.

"Achilles is training me," Connor explained.

"Oh my..." tears of hope shimmered in both her and her husband's face.

Connor's routine was swiftly changed. Achilles seemed to wake earlier than he usually did and set about making breakfast for all of them, and he served it to the young couple in their room. Connor was often sent on chores away from the manor so that Achilles could see to the couple's needs and once, Connor was sent down the hill to have Lance come up.

"Hello!" Lance greeted warmly.

"Warren here needs crutches to start getting mobile again," Achilles explained. "You did fine work making my new cane. I'd trust no one else to help this man get back on his feet."

Connor blinked, not having noticed that Achilles had a new cane. It was some sort of dark wood and the carvings on it were intricate, yet simple.

"It would be my pleasure," Lance replied energetically, pulling out a measuring stick. "Just let me measure your height. Can you stand?"

"Briefly," Warren grunted, and both Connor and Prudence helped him out of Achilles's bed.

"Come spring," Achilles said, "Warren and Prudence here will be starting a farm north of the river. I'd imagine you'll be eager to help them build it."

Lance was almost giddy. "Of course! It will be nice to have some fresh vegetables. I'm a poor hand with my small garden, let me tell you!"

Warren and Prudence were staring at Achilles as Lance took measure of Warren's height. "Truly," Prudence said, wiping at her eyes, "there is still kindness in this world. I had begun to doubt."

Warren was already making the sign of the cross with his free arm and muttering prayers.

Connor smiled warmly. "If a person sees brutality and does nothing, how can he claim to be a person?"

"It's the Colonial spirit," Lance proudly proclaimed. "To help our neighbors."

Winter settled in, cold and windy, and Achilles gave Connor a new weapon to learn. The musket. It was perhaps the hardest weapon that Connor had yet to learn. It was not the forms of the bayonet. Those were easy to learn. There was a rhythm to them similar to swinging a _tamahac_ or warclub or sword. But firing and accuracy seemed impossible.

The first issue Connor had was the fact that it was a _firestick_. He could remember the Stone Coats arrival at his village and how all of them, even the one with a blanket of the _Haudenosaunee_, bore a firestick. And while he hadn't seen them fired, he _had_ seen the damage that the _atenenyarhu_ had done. Achilles and his lack of patience with Connor overcoming this hurdle was perhaps the best approach. As long as the Old Man treated it like another weapon in his arsenal, another tool to use, Connor could distance himself from the memories of what the musket could represent in his mind.

The second difficulty was how unwieldy it was in simply firing. To fire a bow one simply aimed, pulled back the arrow, and let go. Yes, there were things like wind or movement to anticipate and adjust for, but it was simple. The musket did not load quickly, and it took the better part of three days for Connor just to get the rhythm of the powder, wadding, and ball for loading, and another three days to start getting fast at it. But the musket-ball had _no_ accuracy at all. If Connor wished to kill from any kind of distance, the bow was simply better. More accurate and silent.

That wasn't to say that Connor didn't, _eventually_, come to appreciate what the musket could do. It may not have had accuracy or subtlety, but there was one thing it had that an arrow didn't. Power. The musket could do a great deal more damage when it hit than an arrow could. And this Connor could certainly respect.

So Connor kept working at it. And just as he started to master it, Achilles introduced pistols.

Connor sighed.

One cold day, Prudence had decided against walking down the hill to see Lance and the lumberjacks about the plans for the Freeman home, which they would all start building in the spring and the ground wasn't so frozen and they could dig a proper foundation. She claimed it was too cold for her and she instead spent her time in the kitchen, making delicious smells that Connor had never smelled before. Achilles and Connor were helping Warren practice walking, his strength returning a little more every day. Warren was working with a quiet determination to help build their home once the spring came.

Warren had managed to reach the upstairs and was walking through the library and around the bookshelves. They would be walking back down the stairs, circle through the dining room and kitchen, before making their way back upstairs again for another lap once Warren caught his breath.

"You have some beautiful land here."

Achilles, hunched by Warren's side and holding Warren's crutches, nodded. Connor was looking through the books, specifically the titles he hadn't read yet and knowing Achilles would soon be giving them to him. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Connor looked out the window, seeing a person coming up the hill. Connor rubbed at the glass, trying to peer through the frost.

"What is it?" Achilles asked.

"A person is coming up the path."

"They can wait."

But Warren had stiffly walked over and was looking out as well. "Make that people," he said. Indeed, a group of five were coming up.

"Hunters," Achilles shook his head. "If they're smart they'll ask permission so that I can tell them to go away."

"With you training me, Old Man," Connor said lightly, "I would have thought you would like to have someone around to go hunting when I am busy doing your errands."

"Scrap."

Warren chuckled. "Either way, you two may go ahead. I will slow-"

The distinct crack of a musket had all of them staring out the window again. The five were circling the first hunter they had seen, who was on the ground with fresh blood in the snow. Downstairs Prudence screamed, knowing that the musketfire wasn't from Connor.

"Connor, get them the _hell of my land_!"

But Connor was already moving. He leapt over the railing to the stairs and kept running once he yanked open the door. The group saw him coming and quickly scattered. Connor glared at them, but stopped to help the hunter on the ground.

"Are you alright?" he asked, crouching down.

The hunter was already tying a scrap of cloth to the wound. "What do you think?" came the soprano grunt. A woman. White, but skin tanned from time in the sun.

"Come, we can help you."

"But those poachers!"

Connor did not know the word, but he helped the woman up by her good arm. She staggered, and Connor swept her up into his arms as his mother had done for him as a child. "They can wait," he answered her frustration. "Your wound cannot."

The woman gave another frustrated growl. "I asked them to leave," she said, "this was their answer. I seen them poaching 'round here and I wanted to ask permission."

"We must see to that wound first."

"The ball took only the flesh," she growled, "you need to go after those poachers!"

"Let us first take care of you before I hunt them down. What is your name?"

"Myriam," she replied sullenly.

"Do you live nearby?"

"Ahh," she hesitated. "I don't have a home, per se. I took to the frontier when I was a young girl. I made my life out here ever since – living where the land makes easiest. I just finished selling a bunch of furs in Boston and was heading back out to find new hunting grounds."

"Not a common choice for a woman of the Colonies," Connor observed. Even with his people, while the women _could_ hunt, the same way the men _could_ farm, that was not how it usually went.

"No it's not," Myriam agreed, still sullen. "But truth be told, it was this, the convent, or the brothels." She let out a heavy sigh. "I prefer the open air."

Achilles and Warren were coming down the steps as Connor approached and behind them Prudence had a bowl of water and fresh scraps of cloth. Warren was using Achilles's cane and Achilles was already stepping forward to help the young woman. Connor helped them up the steps to the door, then turned.

"Connor," Achilles grunted, "I thought I told you to get them the _hell_ off my land."

"So I will."

The Old Man nodded. "Use the rope dart if you can," he called as Connor raced back down the hill. "Get familiar with it."

The sets of tracks were all scattered in different directions, so Connor picked the one that made his inner eagle screech and followed, focusing on the direction as it went northwest, through a gully, and then up another massive hill. Two hours later, the other four tracks joined with the first. Connor kept a steady pace, knowing that he was close but not wanting to spook these _poachers_ into scattering again. Ahead he heard talking, and he paused in the snow, behind some bushes. He did not wish to be seen, and he knew that ahead was a small clearing that produced beautiful wildflowers in the spring.

Familiar with the area, Connor backtracked, finding a game trail and following it until he found an old pine that had been scorched by a lightning strike two years prior. The top half had collapsed, but the base of the pine was still solid. Old branches that didn't get enough light had snapped off, leaving many a handhold to climb. Connor, when hunting for fresh meat for Achilles and himself, and occasionally for Godfrey and Terry and Lance, he liked to use the clearing for snares for rabbits and smaller game, but there were many stout and sturdy oaks to recline in and wait for the larger game, like deer, or elk. He knew the path and his feet found all the footholds as he jumped from branch to branch on silent feet.

He always did prefer his moccasins to the white man's boots.

Above the clearing, he could see the group. They were chuckling to themselves, triumphant in their escape. Little did they know.

"I hear William Johnson's openin' up some of that Mohawk land he purchased for free huntin' soon."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffened, recognizing the name of one of the Templars. And this person was buying the land of his people? He listened more intently, the cold still air letting the sound carry clearly.

"Might be we make a good haul up there."

"I hear tell lumberin'll be allowed to boot," another poacher nodded.

The first poacher was confused, as was Ratonhnhaké:ton. "What does he want with the territory if not the game and timber?"

"Don't know. "Don't much care, neither," a third poacher said. "Beats skulking around these woods. Something don't feel right."

Ratonhnhaké:ton grinned, knowing that they were slowly realizing that they were no longer the hunters, but the ones being hunted.

"Ha," a fourth chuckled. "Feelin' a bit guilty on account of that woman you put a hole in?"

"Nah, she had it comin'," the man replied. "Imagine, a woman mouthing off to a man? Disgusting! Goes against nature. She needs to be in a kitchen."

They all chuckled.

Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes. Brutality indeed. He pulled out the rope-darts that Achilles had mentioned. He silently swung the rope, remembering the feel of it and remembering Achilles' lessons. He had not worked much with the rope-dart, given his struggles with the musket, but there was a rhythm in the swing that he could feel, like he could feel the tension of the bow. The man who had shot Myriam didn't know what hit him as the rope wrapped around his neck and Ratonhnhaké:ton fell back, letting his weight drag the man back and hang from the tree. Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly spiked the dart into the cold ground. The man was choking above him and the poachers were staring in shock, not knowing what had just happened. This worked to Ratonhnhaké:ton's advantage. Another rope-dart went flying, and with a firm yank he could hear the neck break.

The poachers were starting to scatter, and Ratonhnhaké:ton swiftly pulled out his bow and knocked an arrow. Once the arrow was flying he knocked another and let a second arrow fly in a different direction. He could already hear the grunts of two men dying almost at the same time. Surging forward in the snow, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out his _tamahac_ and placed it directly to the neck of the last poacher, who had stumbled on a rock buried in the snow.

"Shooting strangers in the forest?" he demanded. "Is that common hunting practice where you come from?"

"N-no... I..."

"Spare me!" Connor growled. He leaned forward, pressing his _tamahac_ closely to the man's neck and drawing blood. "Go. Tell the friends you have left what happened here. They are not _welcome_ in this valley."

Calmly, Connor stood and stepped back. The man didn't need to be told twice and took off running in a wild panic. Connor retrieved his arrows and rope-darts, and left the corpses for the wolves.

It was night when he returned to the manor, hungry but satisfied. He found Achilles changing the bandage of Myriam, who was using her other hand to eat the food that Prudence had set forth.

"Thank you, Achilles," she said after swallowing some soup. "Thank you all. I am most grateful."

"You are most welcome," Achilles replied.

"We thank you for the warning," Warren said, rubbing his still tender sides. "It is nice to know that this land is safe once more."

Connor had barely sat down before Prudence was pushing a bowl of thick, steamy stew in front of him that smelled wonderful. "The poachers are either dead or warning off others," he told the Old Man.

"Satisfactory," Achilles replied.

Myriam hesitantly interrupted. "I came to ask permission to hunt here," she said softly, no longer sour from her earlier fight.

"The bounty of the forest is not mine to give," Connor replied, glancing at Achilles. The Old Man nodded. "It is your right to hunt on this land, as it is mine or anyone else who settles here. We hunt to survive. But I would appreciate you trading your surplus with the others here."

"If that includes Prudence's cooking once in a while, I readily accept."

* * *

Time passed quickly after that. Connor's days were a blur of study, training, and work. What little free time Achilles allowed him was spent learning about the Templars. About Charles Lee and Connor's father. He longed to confront them, to finally face them. To put an end to their schemes. So his people would remain untroubled and free. But, Connor acknowledged grudgingly, he knew it was too soon. That to approach them now would see him killed. All his work would be for nothing. Patience. Restraint. Those proved the most difficult subjects for him, as Achilles's frustration often showed. But in time Connor felt he had mastered them as well. Days became months. Months became years. And as his skill and knowledge grew – so too did he.

Letters had been coming from Sam Adams through a Committee of Correspondence, which had been set up to record Assembly meetings and be sent to other towns to discuss at their own Assembly meetings. This way there was consistent information and everyone understood what was happening, even if Boston was dozens of miles away. Connor wasn't entirely sure why he and Achilles were a part of this, but the constant flow of information from the source, instead of some of the news sheets' more propagandized versions, certainly helped Achilles with teaching Connor and Connor in understanding what was going on in the wider world.

The rhetoric in the minutes were fiery, Sam Adams' words easily coming alive in Connor's mind as he talked about tea, a tea tax, and the threat it had to the colonial economy, the precedent it would set, and the dangers of allowing the tax to unfold. Connor had little understanding of how a common drink could be so wrought with danger, and Achilles had to explain the concept of _monopoly_, a new word for the young native. The company had a surplus of tea, Achilles explained, and like any good trader, the company wanted to sell it. What England had done, was written a law that made the tea cheap for the colonies. Connor thought that was a good thing, until the Old Man further explained that it undercut _all other tea_, creating the _monopoly_.

"If you have a trader that wants too much for his goods," Achilles explained, "You go to another trader. A monopoly exists when _only _that trader is available. The East India Company may offer cheaper tea now, but with a monopoly they can set the price to whatever they want, and likely it will be exorbitant. Sam Adams and the people of this colony are worried about the precedent that sets. If they allow this company to create their monopoly through British law, then other monopolies could be lawfully created, squeezing the colonies for every shilling they have.

"Moreover, no matter how they try to hide it, it is still a tax, without the representation of the colonies. Making it is only a thin veneer to make it more palatable."

"Sam does not agree," Connor said, pointing to one of the lines from the Committee of Correspondence, "He says here that the monopoly is equal to a tax."

"There is also the problem of Governor Hutchinson," Achilles added. "His sons are going to be the tea consignees, and he will be hell-bent on shoving this down the colonists' throats. He has a rowdy colony and he knows it, and Bostonian or not he's determined to support King George and make Massachusetts suffer for destroying his house years ago. He's long stopped caring about his image, and now that the governors are appointed by the king instead of elected by the colonies, he no longer has to even try."

Connor completely understood why the colonists were incensed.

These were troubled times. The already uneasy alliance between the Crown and its subjects was frayed. And behind them both the Templars plotted, pulling strings and moving pieces. History dictated they sought order through control. But how would they affect it here? Who supported them? And what conspiracies had they already spun? All these things Connor needed to determine, for only by knowing the enemy could he hope to stop them.

It was late November when there was an unexpected knock on the manor door. Connor and Achilles were in the kitchen, the Old Man making a list for a last minute hunting trip for Ratonhnhaké:ton: turkey. Several wild turkey, enough to feed the Scotsmen, their families, Lance, and now the Freemans. Surprised at the sudden interruption, Connor moved down the hall and opened the door. Beyond was, to his ever-lasting shock, his best friend.

"Kanen'tó:kon!" he said brightly, a smile splitting his face. "_Shé:kon_! What brings you here?"

"_Hén_, my friend," Kanen'tó:kon replied. He was not smiling, however; indeed his face was tight with worry. The anxiety that had so often chased Ratonhnhaké:ton bloomed in his chest. He had never seen Kanen'tó:kon look upset, he was always laid back, slightly lazy, and easy going. Only truly bad things could make him looked that worried, and Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario.

"Is the village alright?" he asked.

"... For now," his friend replied, voice exhausted.

Anxiety. Fear. Worry. Answers, he needed answers. "What do you mean?" he pressed. "What has happened?"

"Men came," Kanen'tó:kon said, eyes down, "claiming we had to leave. They said that the land was being sold and that the Haudenosaunee had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."

Leave. _Leave_. Leave Kanatahséton? Leave the valley? Why? _Why_? It was their home! They have lived there for generations! _Leave_?! What of the Iottsitíson, and her bid that he protect the valley and his people? He has spent over four years here, training, getting ready to fight the _atenenyarhu_ and defeat the threat they posed. Why? Why was this happening now? What had changed? Why was the Sky Goddess suddenly displeased? _Leave_?! That was not an option! He would not let his home be eaten again, he would not let the Stone Coats win. He would protect them, _all_ of them!

"You must refuse!" he said, voice heated, fear and anger making him loud.

Kanen'tó:kon rubbed his face, tired. How long had he traveled to get here? How desperate was he to come so far and seek Ratonhnhaké:ton's aid? "We cannot oppose the _sachem_," he said, "But you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."

"You have a name?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. "Do you know who is responsible?"

"The highest _sachem _of the white men, Warraghiyagey," Kanen'tó:kon said. "Here he is called William Johnson."

Breath left Ratonhnhaké:ton in one swift gasp, and everything froze. William Jo... William Joh... He blinked, trying to get his mind working again, struggling to breathe. It was his worst nightmare. _His worst nightmare_. He had never put the pieces together before, had always known the _sachem,_ the white chief, as Warraghiyagey, did not care to know his colonist name. What a fool. What a fool! He should have put the pieces together sooner! No wonder the Stone Coats knew where their village was, no wonder they knew how to get there, their very _sachem was an atenenyarhu_. How many other atrocities had the cannibal created? How many other villages and longhouses had he eaten in his quest to control everyone around him? How many men and women and children and families and communities _died_ because of Warraghiyagey?!

The fire flooded his mind, the fear, the vision of having a musket pointed right at him and...

The man in the Kanien'kehá:ka blanket, that was him. _That was him._

Rage. Hot, burning, unquenchable _rage_.

His voice dropped, becoming soft, quiet. "Where is Johnson now?"

"In Boston, making preparations for the sale."

"Sale? This is _theft_!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted. "He is an _atenenyarhu_, he was one of the men who came to burn the village when we were children, and now the cannibal seeks to eat even more! This cannot be allowed to happen!"

"In case the thought has yet to occur to anyone," Achilles' papery voice said, invading Ratonhnhaké:ton's intractable thoughts, "You might want to consider that not everyone here is fluent in the language you are speaking. What is this of Johnson and Boston?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned furious eyes to the Old Man, but his dark skinned mentor held his glare with a level, calm gaze of his own, silently imbuing stillness. Ratonhnhaké:ton practiced it until he was under control, and eventually he began to speak in English. He glanced at Kanen'tó:kon, saw his friend was, as Ratonhnhaké:ton had as a child, staring in shock of seeing a person so dark.

"Warraghiyagey, the _sachem_ of our people, his colonial name is William Johnson, one of the Templars that I hunt. He has convinced the _Haudenosaunee_ to sell our valley and push our people off of it. He is in Boston now, preparing for the 'sale.' It is theft! He seeks to eat our very home!"

Shrewd eyes narrowed, Achilles hunching over his cane, his hat dipping down and almost hiding his face. "Connor," he said softly, the gentle warning that so often lead to dire consequences. "Take care. These men are powerful."

"What would you have me do?" Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "I made a promise to my people. _Iottsitíson_ herself bade that I protect the valley. Work of _Hahgwehdaetgah_ is about to be done, and it is up to us to stop it."

Achilles looked down, considering, face now completely hidden by his hat. At last he looked up, only just, and one steely eye was visible.

"If you insist upon this course of action, seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help. He's well connected and knows everything that goes on in the city. He will help you find Johnson."

"_Hén_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, before correcting himself. "Yes, I will do that." His eyes flicked to Kanen'tó:kon, and the two friends shared a nod, Kanen'tó:kon pulling out a _tamahac_ and giving it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. He held it for a moment, appreciating the weight, and swung, burying it deep into the wood of the front columns of the house.

The face Achilles made was indignant. "What have you done?" he growled.

Ratonhnhaké:ton explained. "When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried into a post to signify its start. When the threat is ended, the hatchet is removed."

An incredulous sound grumbled deep in the Old Man's throat. "You could have used a _tree_!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to his best friend. "Come," he said, "It is a few days travel to Boston, and we must make preparations."

Kanen'tó:kon nodded, and the two moved into the homestead. His friends' eyes widened at the shock of settler culture, but Ratonhnhaké:ton paid it little mind, already focused on the task at hand, and leading him up the stairs to his room. Kanen'tó:kon made a noise upon seeing the canopy bed, but his friend's gaze immediately honed in on the dream catcher and the hand-made Tewaarathon stick. Ratonhnhaké:ton had little time to craft more, but he grabbed his bow and quiver and his saddlebags before going back downstairs to the kitchen. Achilles was there, already pulling down some of the drying herbs to create a quick trail mix.

"Connor," he said, "I doubt you'll listen but I say it again: take care. These men are powerful and dangerous. You saw what they did in Boston almost four years ago. Confronting them directly will serve no one, and only get you killed."

"That is immaterial," the young native replied. "I have a job to do, and so it will be done."

"You're not listening, boy, I'm trying to tell you not to rush into this. Your clan mother told you about patience, and now I wish to repeat it: _wait_. Wait until the time is right, wait until-"

"If we _wait_ our land will be stolen from us!" Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. "We cannot wait any longer. _I_ cannot wait any longer. Do you truly doubt the training you have given me that you think me unready for this task?"

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"It is," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, sweeping the dried maize and beans into a pouch and moving into the hall and to the hidden door. He yanked aggressively on the sconce, pressure building in his chest. Kanen'tó:kon's mouth made a surprised oh as he saw the door swing open, and followed Ratonhnhaké:ton down into the root cellar. He breezed past the training circle and the portraits, having lived with them for four years, but Kanen'tó:kon saw all of this as new, and his friend drank in everything before his eyes lingered on the paintings, his gaze on William Johnson. Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled out the roots necessary and added them to his pouches, and then grabbed a pistol and restocked his quiver, as well as grabbing the new rope darts. His hand lingered over the musket, mind flooded with images of the fire and the Stone Coats, for a moment his fear overwhelming him before he locked his jaw and took it.

"Come," he told his friend. "Do you know how to ride a horse?"

"Not well..."

"Then I will teach you as we go. It is a two-to-three day ride to Boston depending on the roads. We will push until dark and make camp wherever we stop. The sooner we get to the city and meet with Sam the sooner we can find and stop Warraghiyagey."

And soon they were in the stables, Ratonhnhaké:ton saddling the old and placid nag for his best friend and his own black mare. Kanen'tó:kon looked at the animal with trepidation, but swung up onto the mount. Ratonhnhaké:ton corrected his posture and gave him some very basic instruction before they rode out of the stable and down the path.

Achilles was at the front door.

"Connor!"

He turned.

"... Take care."

More caution. He did not reply to the Old Man, instead kicking the flanks of his mount and pushing her into a steady trot, leaving Kanen'tó:kon struggling to so the same.

They pushed and pushed, the urgency of the ticking clock making both young men quick to shrug off tiredness. With the days much shorter they both agreed to ride well after dark, and rose well before the sun, making it to the city by midday the next day. The mounts were tired and very put out, and Kanen'tó:kon complained about a very sore rump and back, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was on a mission, and he knew exactly where to go.

As they rode through the city, Ratonhnhaké:ton – he corrected himself – Connor saw a deep mood of stress in the streets. People were talking left and right, worrying about the ships, and what they were going to do, and what was going to happen if the cargo was unloaded. Notices were posted everywhere, some by the Committee for Taring and Feathering, some from the assembly, some from the news sheets. Yellow flags with a snake drawn on them, saying "Don't Tread on Me!" hung here and there, replacing the traditional British flags. Newsboys were surrounded by people, but the crowds were far smaller than normal, even for December cold. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at Kanen'tó:kon, saw that he was amazed by everything he saw, and realized he did not know the difference.

"Something is strange," he said, trying to get his friend's attention. "The streets are usually filled with many more people."

His friend looked at him incredulously. "_More_?" he demanded.

"I wonder where they all are," Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered, apparently to himself.

They rode to Faneuil Hall, where the assembly normally met. A large brick structure built in 1740, it was a marketplace and meeting hall for the city. It was built by Peter Faneuil at his own cost as a gift to the city. Funded in part by Faneuil's venture in slave trade, its design was conceived by the artist John Smibert to resemble and English country market. The open concept first floor held the market and the second floor held the assembly. Suffering a fire in 1761, only its brick walls survived, and was rebuilt; and it's most well-known feature was its grasshopper weather vane, which Connor had seen up close once during a night climb.

He was not comfortable with the building being built off of the buying and selling of people. Even after four years of the Old Man explaining it to him he could not comprehend the obsession the colonists, indeed all white men everywhere, had over _money_. All items, wares, goods, held a value in coin, which made sense to Connor, but services? Why did an assemblyman need to be paid for doing his duty, or a newspaper for giving information to masses? Why was _action_ weighed by coin? Why were _people_? It caused him no end of confusion, but he kept it to himself, knowing that Kanen'tó:kon knew nothing of this, and not wanting to explain.

He did not want his friend to see the city as he did, a mixture of the Sky Goddess' two sons. Good and Evil lived here in equal measure, and Ratonhnhaké:ton did not want Flint to infect any part of his home, up to and including his best friend. He would protect them on every level, their land, their way of life, their very perception of the world. He would hide all which would hurt Kanatahséton, hurt Oiá:ner, hurt Kanen'tó:kon. They would be _safe_.

Normally the Faneuil Hall was alive with activity, Connor had visited many times on his supply runs to speak with Sam and occasionally get another lesson in politics. Now however, it was practically empty. Surprised, Connor finally found a secretary at an office labeled Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts. The man said the meeting proved to be too big, and everything had been moved to the Old South Meeting House.

"Meeting?" Connor asked. "What meeting?"

"Why, the meeting about the _Dartmouth_. The tea has arrived!"

That meant nothing to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he shared a confused look with Kanen'tó:kon before leaving Faneuil Hall and moving to their next stop.

"I did not understand what that man was saying," his friend said.

"Neither did I."

"No, I mean I do not understand the language. I never studied it the way you did. It makes little sense to me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton offered a soft smile. "I will translate as I can," he said.

Completed in 1729, eleven years before Faneuil Hall, the Old South Meeting House was actually a Congregationalist church. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew little of it except that it was the place for speakers to give speeches on the anniversary of the Boston Massacre. Sam's friend John Hancock spoke there one year, and their colleague Dr. Warren as well. Benjamin Church spoke there once as well, and Achilles had very nearly tied Ratonhnhaké:ton to a bed to prevent him from going out to stop him.

All the people that Connor had failed to see in the city were suddenly there, all at once. The meeting house and the square in front was _filled_ with people, men, women, and children all coming in and out, the air thick with concern and tension and anxiety, a feeling Ratonhnhaké:ton knew all too well and soaked into him painfully. He threw a glance at Kanen'tó:kon, lost at the sight of the crowds, and dismounted. "I will find Sam Adams," told his friend. "If the assembly is here and has this many people, it is highly likely that he is speaking. It may take a while to get him. Wait here, watch the people, explore the city a little, if you think you can without getting lost. Practice your English."

Kanen'tó:kon could only nod dumbly.

Inside there were even more people than outside, women and children filling the galleries above as was their place, the men flooding the pews on the floor, standing, moving, energy everywhere. He pulled aside the first person he could, saying he'd just arrived and didn't know what was going on.

"Are you on the Committee of Correspondence?" the man asked. "Do you know about the Tea Act? Well, the tea is _here_! Some ship, the _Dartmouth_ I think, it just landed. All the other cities; New York, Philadelphia, Charlestown, they were all able to convince the tea consignees to retire, to not enforce the law, but that damned Hutchinson won't allow it! Put his own sons in office, probably to milk more money off us! Imagine! Taxing us without representation and then telling us that because the tea is cheaper it will actually be _good_ for us! The cheek! The nerve! I've half a mind to motion that we burn the ship, mast to hull!"

"Order, order!"

The din quieted some, and Connor could see Sam Adams, in his rumpled blue coat, up at the podium, face red with energy, excitement. Why was he excited? This problem with the tea was a _problem_, was it not?

"... that the sense of this town cannot be better expressed than in the words of certain judicious resolves, lately entered into by our worthy brethren, the citizens of Philadelphia," Sam was saying. "They had stated that," he glanced down at a paper, " 'That the duty imposed by Parliament on the tea landed in America is a tax on the Americans, or levying contributions on them without their consent.' "

The crowd erupted in noises of agreement, barely hearing as Sam continued to read. " '… That the resolution lately entered into by the East India Company, to send their tea to America subject to the payment of duties on its being landed here, is an open attempt to enforce a ministerial plan, and a violent attack on the liberties of America!' "

The noise was unstoppable as Sam read out the individual resolutions the Quakers in Pennsylvania had passed, a cacophony that pressed on Ratonhnhaké:ton, hurting his ears and making him long for the quiet of the forest. The great hall was warm, even though it was the end of November, body heat of masses of people pushed together like kernels of corn on an ear of maize, and the heat filled Connor's face just as it did Sam's. Other people were speaking now, his cousin John, Dr. Warren butting heads with Sam just below the podium. Connor started to part his way through the crowd. He was halfway there before Sam took up the podium again, eying the crowd, judging its mood, sensing when they were ready.

"I propose a similar set of resolutions!" he called out. "I propose that we resolve that we urge the captain of the _Dartmouth_ to take his ship and the tea he has so unlikely transported _back_ to England!" The masses cheered uproariously. "I propose that we resolve to convince him that he return it _without_ paying the import duty! I propose that we resolve to keep men at the docks until this matter is decided! The tea must not be unloaded, or Governor Hutchinson and those lofty, high-handed, educated members of _Parliament_ must _not_ be allowed that victory! We have twenty days! Twenty days to push back and make our voices heard! To show the men at London just what we think about taxation without representation! Twenty days to send a message that will reach the governor's house! To fly across the Atlantic!"

The noise was deafening now, Connor covered his ears, and he realized that he had no hope of talking to Sam Adams in this environment. This was _his_ place, _Sam's_ place, and he loved being here. Nothing could pull him away, and even though he and the city and the very colony were in crisis, Sam Adams was a man who thrived on _this_ moment, when all the colony heard his words, and when all the colony rose up to agree with him. Even at fifty-one he was a powerhouse of energy, always on the move, always quick for oratory and rhetoric, moving with the swell of the energy of the people. _Nothing_ could pull Sam Adams away from this.

Connor slowly backed out of the meeting house, glancing out the door and seeing Kanen'tó:kon had disappeared, exploring the city. That was fine. He could wait.

A little while.

Just a little.

It was past five, well past sunset when the meeting finally adjourned so that men and women could break for supper. Kanen'tó:kon had returned, and the two had talked quietly as the crowds slowly dispersed, his best friend speaking of the wonders of the city and Ratonhnhaké:ton listening with only half an ear as he kept his eyes and his eagle awake for the man he was looking for. At last, after six, a trio of men left the building.

"Look," said one man, "sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam. We need to _act_. And I'm talking about more than a sternly worded letter."

"I sympathize with your frustrations, gentlemen," Sam was saying, voice a little hoarse from all his speaking, "But surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest. England is already upset with us as it is; we've already had a Massacre, I'd rather not be responsible for starting another."

"The Tories sting no matter what we do. Might as well make it count."

Sam was smiling, but something wasn't right about it, tight and tolerant, before his eyes at last feel upon the seventeen year old native. "Ah, Connor," he said, his smile turning much warmer. "Hello again. Who's your friend here? What brings you to Boston?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton got right to the point. "You."

Sam nodded, tugging his blue coat tighter around him and looked to his two compatriots. "Would you excuse us fellows?" he asked, walking away before receiving an answer. Connor and Kanen'tó:kon followed, into the freezing temperatures as a wind kicked up. "Cold tonight," Sam muttered after a time before turning to Connor and his friend. "Thank you," he said warmly. "That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you could help me locate William Johnson."

"Of course," Sam said easily. "I'm headed to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?"

Connor quickly translated for his friend.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," Sam said, smiling again.

"This is my friend, Kanen'tó:kon." Then he switched languages. "This is Sam Adams, he says he's off to a meeting with people who will know how to find Warraghiyagey."

Kanen'tó:kon nodded, and Sam did likewise before taking in a deep, chilly breath and exhaling. "It's good to see the people finally taking a stand against injustice..."

"Not every injustice," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, thinking of his ruminations of Faneuil Hall. "You speak of the injustice of the Crown, but you will not speak of the injustice of the slaves."

"We've been over this before," Sam said easily. "I practice what I preach, my friend. Surry's not a slave, but a freed woman. At least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It is a tragedy that for all our progress, still we cling to such barbarism."

"Then speak out against it," Connor said. "You orate eloquently of the plight of the colonies, why not apply that to the plight of the slaves? You stir great response from the people, surely you can right more than one wrong."

Sam shook his head. "We must focus first on defending our rights. When this is done, we'll have the luxury of addressing these other matters."

The dismissal of the brutality done to Warren and Prudence, of their horror stories of their arduous journey up here, grated on Connor's sensibilities. "You speak as though your 'condition' is equal to that of the slaves. It is not."

Sam had the audacity to _laugh_. "Tell that to my neighbor," he said, "who was compelled to quarter British troops. Or to my friend whose store was closed because he displeased the Crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."

Connor pressed further. "You offer excuses instead of solutions. All people should be equal and not in turns." His voice had risen slightly, his frustration at Sam's circular speaking and mixing with his already high anxiety for the safety of his people. Kanen'tó:kon looked up, uncertain what was going on and worried over what he didn't understand. Sam, in turn, gave Connor a long, hard look, the warm smile gone, the amicable veneer disappeared like smoke.

"It's in turns or not at all," he said. "We must compromise, Connor, however painful that may be. Try and solve all the world's problems at the same time you'll wind up solving none at all. As radical as I am – and I know damn well I'm a radical – that man with me just now, William Molineux, is even more extreme than I, so is Paul Revere the silversmith. Men, government, even women, will push and push, and when a man's taken enough of the pushing he _will_ push back. That's exactly what's happening here. London has pushed long enough, and now we're pushing to have our voices heard. Imagine what would happen if people like you or I pushed against slavery? We'd be seen as no better than Parliament, putting our noses into things not our affair and decried for acting like the heavy-handed gentry in England. A man cannot be pushed on _all_ sides, lest he find himself in a corner and then act like a beast. I'm trying right now to prevent that _very_ thing. We are backed in a corner, Connor, and violence is only one hot breath away, and however deeply I blame Hutchinson and London I will be _damned_ before I see more blood spilt in Boston if I can help it. If we can't solve this problem it's war, imagine what it would look like if we added slavery to our agenda."

"But it is not _right_."

"Of _course_ it's not right," Sam said. "I never once said it was. Slavery is little more than barbarism, used by weak men to live easy lives and to save their precious money for whatever trinket that will garnish their estate. But to subject an already abused colony to even further abuse will only beget more trouble than it's worth."

"Why must everything come down to _worth_?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, voice louder than he intended.

"What's going on?" Kanen'tó:kon asked. "Is there bad news about Warraghiyagey?"

"_Ià_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly. "We are disagreeing over... something."

"To do with the village."

"_Ià_, something else."

Sam sighed, coughing in the chilly air. "I must apologize, Connor," he said, voice still hoarse. "I've been fighting all day, it seems I'm too quick to fight more. We can speak more of it later."

Connor was about to reply when, even in the dark of night, a new voice filled the frigid air.

"Get off me, _baptesme_!"

"Have a taste of my boot, Frenchie!"

"A little 'elp? _S'il vou pla__î__t_?!"

"Go back to where you come from!"

"You just watch me take a beating?"

Finally, the trio could see what was happening. A man stumbled into the dim circle of lamplight, three sloshed men in pursuit and happy to kick at him now that he was on the ground.

"Slavery comes in many forms," Sam said, his breath misting in the cold. "I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough, Connor."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was witnessing an _atenenyarhu_ at work, a Stone Coat determined to eat the home of this man. The valley flooded his mind, Warraghiyagey and his fellow spawns of Flint eating so many people that day. He was no longer a helpless six-year old. He was now trained by a true _hirokoa_, and he was now one himself. He would fight. As he had for Lance. As he had for Warren and Prudence. As he would for Kanen'tó:kon and Kanatahséton. He looked to his best friend, so out of place in the white man's world.

"Continue on," he said. "I shall meet you at our destination." He turned to Sam. "Where are you headed?"

"Mr. Molineux's establishment. He's a hardware merchant in the North End."

He nodded, and moved away from the two, hearing Sam begin asking simple, easy to understand questions and Kanen'tó:kon answering in a terrible accent. Had Ratonhnhaké:ton sounded like that when he started? Perhaps that was why Achilles was so adamant he read _Poor Richard's Almanac_ aloud and correct him every other word. That was of little consequence, however, as he moved in on the Stone Coats.

As he approached he smelled the drink that had so inebriated Faulkner when they first met. Cracking his knuckles he made short work of the three, their minds too impaired to be much of a threat; even given their impressive size. In the span of ten minutes he moved to help the beleaguered man up.

"Thank you, my friend," the man said. He was small to the point of scrawny, thin and wiry, with a thick cap on his head against the cold air. "They had a little too much _bière_ and didn't like the sound of my voice. I was only talking to that girl."

Connor frowned, holding his hands together. "Your accent is unfamiliar. Where are you from?"

"North of here," he panted, holding his abdomen. "_Province de _Quebec."

That was _very_ far north. "And what brings you to Boston?"

"I am a miner by trade," he said, rubbing his chin, "but it's hard to find work. People don't listen to me because of my accent."

Miner... It would be much easier to mine the materials necessary to repair of homestead instead of having it trekked all the way from Boston. Warren and Prudence didn't have half the tools necessary to lever all the large rocks in the soil out of the ground to cultivate it, and and the wait for bulk orders was enormous with all the soldiers occupying Boston and having their own demands. Perhaps... "It might be our meeting was fate. I hail from a village just forty miles north of here. There are the beginnings of a mine. I do not know what is in there but perhaps you might find what you are looking for within."

The miner from Quebec looked up, eyes wide as a slow grin began to split his face. "I'll come have a look. If there's something good, maybe we'll talk."

"Good. What is your name?"

"Norris."

"Very well. My name is Connor. I am off to a meeting, Norris, and I am likely to be here for a few days. Can you find lodgings?"

"_Oui, bien sûr_." Norris straightened at last. "Where can I find you?"

"Faneuil Hall, I hope. Tomorrow afternoon?"

"_Bien_, I'll see you then."

The two parted ways, and Connor could feel himself smile in the cold. The sky goddess rewarded him for fighting Stone Coats, proving he was on the right path, and he was right. Sam Adams was wrong, compromise was unnecessary, all problems could be fixed, and did not need to be _prioritized_.

He found the hardware store, and Kanen'tó:kon was there, sitting by the counter and dozing. Ratonhnhaké:ton realized belatedly that his friend was exhausted, had been exhausted since his arrival at the manor's doorstep. Both of them, in their anxiety and fear over the fate of their valley, had pushed perhaps too far. It would do little good if either of them were too tired to be of any use. He glanced at Sam, who arrived from a door, and glanced back at his friend. "The day has been long for both of us," he said softly. "Perhaps we can discuss William Johnson in the morning?"

Sam nodded, his face soft. "I understand. We're all tired, and the days are guaranteed to be longer still. Best to sleep when we can. I did tell Mr. Molineux about your request. He'll start asking around when the shop opens, and we can have a meeting before I'm off to Faneuil Hall. There's much to be done." He yawned. "There's a spare room Will has offered for the two of you. I'm off to Elizabeth. And Surry," he added, a small smile on his face. "I'll be sure to tell her of your convictions. She'll appreciate it."

The next morning was November 30, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon both woke with the sun, Kanen'tó:kon sore from the riding. He moved stiffly about and watched as Ratonhnhaké:ton went through some of his morning exercises. "A ritual of the white man?" he asked.

"_Iá_," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "A ritual of the Old Man. He would see me push myself to my limits and beyond in order to be ready to defend my people and fight the _atenenyarhu_. Now that we know that Warraghiyagey is one of them, a confrontation will likely be at hand, and I wish to be at my best."

"You have always been like that," Kanen'tó:kon said with a smile. "You were never satisfied with sitting still."

"It is when one sits still that disaster occurs," Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "No matter what Oiá:ner says, I could never master stillness. Achilles teaches me action, and it suits me much better."

"Not I," Kanen'tó:kon said. "I _like_ stillness. If I could live the rest of my life in the valley I would be content."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up. "So would I," he said softly.

"_Iá_," his friend countered. "You have been like this since we were boys. You could never sit still. This life you lead suits you much better."

The comment surprised Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Why do you say that?" he asked, confused.

"Because you are happier," Kanen'tó:kon said. "I had never seen you smile so widely when you saw me at the door of the dark man's longhouse, nor were you so eager to laugh as you were when you visited. You find _satisfaction_ here, and I am glad that you have at last found it."

Satisfaction? Was that truly what it was? Ratonhnhaké:ton did not consider his life satisfying, only necessary. The training, the lessons, the reading and speaking and even the trips to Boston, were all to get him ready enough to face and fight the Stone Coats, to defeat Charles Lee before he could eat any more people. He did not find satisfaction in his work – indeed he was increasingly feeling _frustration_, because he still had so far to go before he was ready, and at times the anxiety would bubble up in his chest and he would run for hours, trying to burn it out before Achilles noticed and _beat_ it out of him. He was satisfied that he was going to protect his people, he was satisfied that he had won smaller fights with the spawn of the evil twin Flint, but his life was one giant waiting game, and patience was the one thing he could not master, not with knowing that things could go so badly at any moment. This crisis with Warraghiyagey buying their land was proof enough of _that_.

He was still thoughtful when they reentered the hardware shop. Mr. Molineux was there, deep in conversation with Sam and the third man from last night's conversation. They all three looked up, and Sam was silently elected spokesman.

"Connor!" he said magnanimously. "I'd like you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molineux, and Paul Revere, skilled silversmith, engraver, and accomplished rider."

Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly translated for Kanen'tó:kon. "Hello," he said simply.

"Mr. Molineux has already started asking about your man William Johnson," Sam said. "It's still early in the day yet, and with all the other things going on it may take a while; I regret to tell you that, but I endeavor to counter that by saying that we _should_ know in a few days' time. Time, as they say, will tell."

Molineux was, apparently, still in their earlier conversation. "The ships have been here for four days, we only have sixteen left before the tea consignees retrieve it. And those Hutchinson bastards are flouting their position. Did you see the signs on their office doors? Esquire! Junior Esquire! Are titles truly so important to them, or are they just thoughtless pawns of their father? Something we must address, Samuel, at the next meeting."

"I don't disagree, Will," Sam said, Connor translating to Kanen'tó:kon as the conversation went on. "The docks are an angry place of late, protesters picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are upon that stage..." And then, all at once, his face went slack and he turned hard to look at Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon. He stared for a long moment, before he blinked at the moment passed. "Connor," he said, something in his voice suddenly changing. Molineux and Revere picked up on the sudden change in mood, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and his best friend shared a confused look, uncertain what had shifted so sharply. "Connor, I don't think I've ever asked. What tribe do you hail from?"

"My people are the Kanien'kehá:ka," Ratonhnhaké:ton said slowly, uncertain where this was headed. "You call us Mohawks."

"Yes, yes," Sam said, nodding but not completely listening. "May I ask why you seek him, Connor? William Johnson, I mean?"

"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, letting the words settle before adding: "_without_ the consent of my people."

Sam slapped his hand on the table he and the others were sitting at. "By God," he said. "The parallels are uncanny. Connor, you've given me a marvelous idea."

"I do not understand."

"Oh, you will," Sam said. "By God. By God! It might work! Gentlemen, if Governor Hutchinson does not give in to the will of the people of Boston, if he holds fast to the principal of executing the King's will 'without the consent of his people,' then we may have a fail-safe way to avert disaster, without a single drop of blood! It's inspired! Connor, you're a genius!" He stood hastily, the chair staggering behind him. "I need to gather some people, call a meeting at Faneuil Hall. We have barely two weeks, gentlemen, that doesn't give us much time. Come."

He swept towards the door, Molineux and Revere rushing to follow, before he paused and turned back to Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon. "As soon as any of us get any word," he said quickly, "we'll let you know."

And, like a gust of wind, Sam Adams was gone.

The two natives looked to each other. Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea.

Most of the day was spent idle, as was the next and the next. Ratonhnhaké:ton kept to his exercises, and took Kanen'tó:kon small tours of the city. His best friend looked around in wonder, but as the days drew on he kept more and more to his room. Anxiety, it seemed, caused his friend to sit still, where Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself walking the streets more and more in an attempt to ease the tightness in his chest.

The city itself could talk of nothing else but the tea, sitting in the _Dartmouth_ and the other ships at the docks and representing all that they had come to hate about Parliament, London, and England. Nobody knew what was going to happen; many boys, Connor's age and younger, had no way to channel their anger and fights occasionally erupted in the streets before an elder broke them apart. Women congregated together, wary of all the negative energy, and tried to shelter their children from the dangers. At Faneuil Hall Sam Adams, his cousin John, and many others spoke loud and long, calling to calm their fear, warning that bloodshed would lead to events similar to the Boston Massacre, and that no one wanted such a repetition. But the source of the problem, the tea, was still there, and nothing seemed to be done about it. Sam tried to assure the public, detailing meetings he had with the members of the ship, articulating he had talked to the owners of the ship, reminding the people that they were just middle men, and to not take their anger out of the messengers of such terrible news.

A guard was posted on the docks, militia preventing the tea from being unloaded by their very armed presence, and all anyone could do was wait as the tension grew thicker and thicker, pressing on the masses and driving them slowly insane.

The assembly was filled to bursting, meetings often shifting to the Old South Meeting House. People streamed in from all across the colony, hearing the problems via the Committee of Correspondence and coming to either show solidarity or offer their own possible solutions. The inns and taverns were fit to bursting trying to hold everyone, and with them came even more fear and anxiety.

And, in the middle of everything that was happening, Molineux and Revere curiously asked after Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon about the Mohawks, at first asking cursory questions about their culture but eventually narrowing in on how they dressed. The asked after the wampum that so decorated Kanen'tó:kon's shirt, his shoulders covered in the tiny beads, and armbands on his forearms that stretched from wrist to elbow, a testament to his status and skill as a hunter and leader in the valley. Neither native understood why they were so fascinated, nor why the men talked of tailors when they were alone, and as the days stretched on, with no word on the search for William Johnson, Ratonhnhaké:ton became increasingly tense and impatient.

He took to the streets often. Norris, the miner he had helped, was not the only fistfight he broke up. The elders were quick to prevent the boys from doing dangerous things, but not all of the fighters were children.

"Hey, it's my home no matter what you thieves called 'soldiers' say! If the grumps in Parliament, who want my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to see a red coat, a British regular hammering at a door, two others at his flank. "It's not open for discussion!" the soldier said. "We're assigned your house! Now open this door or these men will break it down!"

The response was a sloshing sound, followed by a cry and several noises of offense as the man who was shouting took a bucket form the second story window and dumped its yellow contents down onto the heads of the soldiers. Connor remembered that the British soldiers had the right to sleep in any home, and while many were camped out on the Commons, many others were settled in houses. The three at the door, now soaked with urine, were irate.

"Bollocks! We're coming in!"

The man from above burst out of his home swinging, landing an impressive right cross before diving into a second, sending both of them careening over the steps to his front door. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not abide by the regulars taking this man's home, it was too close to his own problem with Johnson taking his valley, and he was compelled to stop the evil that he was seeing. The homesteader was a vicious fighter, speaking words Connor had never heard before, and between he and Ratonhnhaké:ton there was no contest. The soldiers were defeated in less than three minutes, either on the ground or rolling away.

"Justice for once," the brawler said. "I dare the Governor to send more."

"You alright?" Connor asked, seeing blood running freely from the man's nose and a cut on his temple.

The man shrugged it off. "I'm fine," he said, his accent similar to the miner Norris'. "It's not my first dance. For all their teeth and claws these little foxes, they fight like puppies." He paused, remembering his manners. "Stephane Chapheau."

"Connor."

"Thank you, my friend. I'd buy you an ale, but I'm expected somewhere else."

"Of course, it was a pleasure to meet you."

The next day Ratonhnhaké:ton was walking the streets again, listening to the crowd's anxiety and trying not to assimilate it himself. He passed by the brawler Stephane's house, and said man was storming out of his door, a murderous look on his face.

"Stephane," he asked. "What is wrong?"

"I've been robbed!" he shouted, his voice echoing over the streets. "_Ils vont me le payer ces scélérats de merde..._"

… Connor had no idea what any of that meant. He was about to ask when the brawler ducked in his house and came out seconds later with a butcher knife in his hand, speaking more in the language Connor didn't understand. His face was black with rage and he walked with powerful, jerky steps through the street. Still not completely sure what was happening, he jogged after him.

"Where are you going?" he called after the man, uncertain.

"To get back what's rightfully mine!" he shouted in return. "Those damned redcoats have abused us for the last time! Bad enough that they stay in my 'ouse, now they take my t'ings?! _Incroyable!_ I will repay them for this! Oh! _Regardez!_ Some pathetic redcoats waiting for a beating! I will match your face to your jacket, _crapule_!"

Down the street and around the corner was a pair of regulars, walking towards them with no idea what was happening. Switching back and forth between English and the other language, Stephane advanced with his butcher knife. The people on the streets looked on, hearing the interspersed words of "theft" and "redcoats" and immediately putting the dots together. After over a week of worrying about the tea, the concern and the fear of the consequences of the symbolism of England enforcing its will without their consent, was enough to make more than a few snap. Two burly looking men joined Stephane, still cursing, and advanced on the redcoats. One tried to raise a musket, seeing too late that they were the targets of the outrage, but to no avail, Stephane's fist wrapped around it and his butcher knife struck it with such force as to dent the metal, rendering it useless. The beating was over with quickly, Connor still trying to calm them all down.

"_Ces Coquins me prennent mon père au Canada et voilà qu'ils me ravissent ma propriete ici. Il suffit!_ We are not English! We are not the King's men! We are free! But the King sends these _redcoats_ to push us around! They are not our masters!" He turned to the growing crowds in the street. "This is our city!" he shouted. "Let's show them who owns it! It's time to fight!"

That was the _last_ thing the city needed. "Stephane, please," Connor said, trying to diffuse the situation. "Stop and listen to me."

"I've listened for long enough! They come into _my_ 'ome and take _my_ t'ings? I will get my revenge. The man responsible for this will pay. His friends will pay! _Voilà trop longtemps que je subis ces affronts! Ils vont goûter de mon courroux! Où que j'aille, l'Anglais croise mon chemin. Ils me volent ma maison, ils m'obligent à fuir mon pays. Et les voici qui veulent s'approprier ma _nouvelle_ demeure!_"

Stephane had gathered a much larger crowd now as he stalked the streets. Similar shouts were coming from the others, talk of suffering affronts, expressing their wrath. Connor knew this was the opposite of what Sam Adams wanted, the assemblyman so concerned about image and scared of further bloodshed constantly cautioning everyone who would listen to not give in to their desire for revenge, that there _was_ a way out of this crisis. Achilles, too, entered into Connor's mind, explaining that the people who made the best assassins were the ones who had been driven into a corner and had no other means but violence, who knew oppression in its myriad forms and could take up the mantel and fight where they saw it. Connor, himself, was much like Stephane, in that way. He, too, was backed into a corner, since the day the Stone Coats had come and burned his village; and like Stephane he had no other option but to fight. Achilles, however, had taught him that there were other ways to defeat an enemy, and Sam constantly spoke of the political process. The _atenenyarhu_ may be immune to anything but the blade but the regulars were not such spawns of the evil twin. His sympathy for Stephane made him try again, regardless of his half understanding the words that came out of the man's mouth.

"There is a way to fight injustice! But _this_ is not it!"

"What else is there?" Stephan demanded. "They have come into my 'ome against my wishes, and now they have _robbed_ me, and they will not be persecuted here, they are completely immune to our laws! I will not have those _coquins_ do this to someone _else! Ah! Il est la!_"

And then Stephane was running, breaking away from the crowd and lifting his butcher knife high over his head, swinging downwards with a technical precision that Connor appreciated at a distance even as it cleaved deep into a British soldier's shoulder, spurting blood everywhere. Some of the women in the crowd screamed and ran away, and the men shouted in bloody satisfaction at the violence, dispersing to find similar targets. Connor finally managed to shoulder through the bodies, walking up to the carnage.

"... W-why?" the soldier, and officer, muttered as he slowly collapsed to the ground.

"You have _no right_ to rob people blind!" Stephane spat, kneeling down over the man. "By decree of British Parliament or not."

The officer sucked in a bubbly breath. "You damned colonists... throwing a tantrum like the children you are... You _caused_ this, can you not see...?"

Stephane looked ready to do more violence, but Connor softly put a hand on his shoulder. "He is already dead," he said quietly. "End his suffering cleanly."

For a moment, Stephane just breathed heavily through his nose, air coming out in thick clouds, before his eyes cleared and he finally saw what he had done. With a solid and meaty yank he pulled the cleaver out and chopped again, this time into the officer's neck, and leaned back, looking up at the sky. "_Merde_," he said, and Connor was surprised to realize the man was practicing stillness.

And that was when he understood. Stephane, like Ratonhnhaké:ton, was fighting his own Stone Coats. The man had some skill – his own training made him able to see that – and perhaps he would be amenable to fighting more than just his own _atenenyarhu_.

"You have done a good deed today," he said softly, kneeling down and getting the brawler's attention.

Stephane opened his eyes slowly turning to the native. "You are perhaps the only one who will believe that. You have helped me, twice now. I said I would by you an ale, but in place of drink, I offer you my allegiance, for what it's worth. If ever you are in a scrap like this, call on me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off. The story kicks into gear for a while with the start of this chapter, because Connor is pinballed from one major event to the next, and for now that's logical because all the major events are all in Massacheusetts and he's (relatively) close at hand. It's worth noting that won't be the excuse for later in the fic but that's... later.
> 
> More than anything else this chapter is about stress. Connor feels it in massive explosions and its even bigger with the stress of the Bostonians pressing in on him, too. We've very deliberately made the point of explaining the economics behind why the Tea Act became such a powder keg - not only because of the monopolies but because of Royal Governor Hutchinson and his sons. If anyone pays attention to political rallies and protests - Occupy Wall Street, the Ferguson/Micheal Brown Protests, etc - and it's not too hard to imagine what the mood was back in the day. In some respects, this was really easy to write.
> 
> Note that Connor and Sam Adams talk about compromise. Also note that Kanen'to:kon is starting to show that he has different ideals than Connor. Also note the talk about slavery. It all comes back.
> 
> William Johnson's Haudenosaunee name is, in fact, Warraghiyagey (which I'm sure I misspelled again), which he arrogantly translates a "He Who Does Great Things." We thought it rather funny that the name acts as a red herring, because Connor has no idea that one is the same as the other.
> 
> Next chapter: a very famous party.


	10. Tea Party

That evening Ratonhnhaké:ton introduced Stephane to Norris and Kanen'tó:kon, and the four went to a tavern to talk. Kanen'tó:kon did not speak much, uncomfortable with the English, and it did not take long for Norris to lose all sensibilities to the ale. Only Stephane seemed able to drink it, even Connor kept his drink to water. The smell alone was _terrible_.

"Stephane," he asked delicately. "How is your ale?"

"_Pisse_," he replied, Connor having learned the language was French. "But it gets the job done – my father would be disgusted – but after a day's work with you a man needs to unwind. I would prefer a nice bottle of rum but these Colonies lack refinement."

Haytham Kenway, leader of the Templars, filled Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind unexpectedly. He blinked, realizing he knew nothing about his father other than what Achilles had told him. What was it like to have a father? He looked to Stephane, prompting: "Your father?"

His entire face changed, the angry and determined lines softening to fondness and memory. "_Mon père_. He was a great man. A cook in the French Army during the Seven Years War. He marched all across the white North, feeding Louis-Joseph de Montcalm and his officers, cooking them feasts from sticks and berries. When the Commander-in-Chief opted for open conflict instead of manning the battlements of Quebec, every man was called to arms, including my father. He died on the field. But I'm told he fought ferociously. It matters little. He's gone now."

Did all people regard their fathers with such admiration? Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know. But he did know the loss of a parent, felt it keenly every day, and he saw it mirrored on Stephane's face. He offered consolation.

"He would be proud of you."

"This is my one hope – that he smiles upon the choices I've made."

"I would like you to come with us when our work here is done."

"Ah, _oui,_ you have quite an _ensemble_ here. Two Frenchmen and a native. What are your goals?"

"To defeat the _atenenyarhu_," Connor said simply. "They threaten the village where Kanen'tó:kon and I live, and so I receive training from a man north of here to fight against them. We have a small settlement there, and Norris here hopes to open a mine there."

"_Bien_," Stephane said, nodding as he drank from his ale again. "A fresh start. Tell me, 'ow did you learn to fight as you did? I have been in many scraps before, but you are the finest fighter I have ever seen. I have been meaning to ask you, how did you come to it?"

"I did not ask for it," Connor explained. "But I feel it was meant to happen. I was just a boy when I met Achilles. He made me a warrior, trained me to fight those who would oppress others and lift themselves above men and women. It is a long fight, but one worth fighting."

"Ah, to lead such a life," Stephane said. "Your adventures must be _très grand, n'est-ce pas_?"

"I did not understand all of that, but my adventures are as yet very small. I am still training, but the threat to my people has become so great that I must deal with it before my training is complete. The Old Man was not happy."

"Ha! I can imagine. But, if you, as you are, are only partially trained, I would dread to be the man you face when fully trained."

"Would you like such training as well?"

Stephane blinked, surprised. "You would offer me such a chance? To become a better fighter? To become better able to defend myself? _Merde! Bien sûr!_ Of course I would!"

"Then you may join us when we return to the homestead."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Kanen'tó:kon said in a tight voice. That was all the signal he needed from his friend, and soon Stephane was helping his fellow Frenchman to bed and he and Kanen'tó:kon were in their room supplied by Mr. Molineux.

"_Hén_, Kanen'tó:kon, what is your worry?"

"That this is taking too long. We have been here for twelve days, and still your friend Sam Adams has not told us where Warraghiyagey is. What if we are too late? What if we cannot stop him and we are forced out of our home? You walk these streets so easily, make friends with the French and speak of bringing them with you back to your mentor; you make plans even though you do not know how this will end. You have... you have changed. And I am scared."

Ratonhnhaké:ton sat with his best friend on the floor of their room, by the fire as they would as children. "I have not changed," he said.

"You have. You walk in this world with much more ease than you ever did in ours."

"It is not ease, Kanen'tó:kon," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, "but necessity. The white men live lives far more complicated than ours."

"They are unnecessarily complicated."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled, softly. "In this we agree. But the Stone Coats live here, and so I must learn their ways so that they do not see me coming when I kill them."

His friend shook his head, his turkey feathers shaking slightly. "We are not _hirokoa_, we are Haudenosaunee. Warraghiyagey, I do not like what he's done, I do not like that even after working with us for so long he does not understand _land_ as we do; I may not trust him but he is our _only_ voice to this world you are learning so much about. I have talked to many other villages as I sought you out, and many agree that we are seen as allies only because Warraghiyagey tells the white men we are allies. You speak of killing him so callously, but if he is dead who will defend us? Is killing him the only way to stop us from being pushed off the valley?"

"But he is an _atenenyarhu_."

"No, Ratonhnhaké:ton, he is a man, just like you and I. You call him _atenenyarhu_ to try and explain what happened when we were children, but we have no way of knowing that he was actually there, we have no way of proving that he was one of the men who set the fire."

"But I saw him..."

"You were _six_, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Even _I_ don't remember everything that happened that day, and we lost _friends_."

"You... Did..." Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself at a loss for words. How could he not see? How could his _best friend_ not see that Stone Coats really _did_ exist, that the spawns of the evil twin Hahgwehdaetgah _did_ walk the earth, just not in the forms the Haudenosaunee initially thought? Stone Coats were believed to be rock giants, impervious to weapons, associated with winter and ice that ate humans. Such a description did not need to be literal, as children believed, but a metaphor, as Achilles had taught. The Templars were giants, large and impervious to normal means of defeat, and they were cold as winter. They were human, yes, but they were _also_ Stone Coats, and they needed to be stopped just as any other childhood ghost story. How did he not see?

"Have you always thought this?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked slowly.

A long, painful pause drew out, Kanen'tó:kon looking at the fire.

Finally, "_Hén_. We all did. We were just children, and the adults knew we needed to explain it somehow. But as we grew older, we accepted what the Oiá:ner and Roiiá:ner told us, that white men came demanding the location of a site, and when we did not give it they burned the village down. We are not children anymore, Ratonhnhaké:ton, and it's time we moved passed childhood's scary stories."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, adamant. "I have seen it," he said. "I remember the white men clearly, I remember the name _Charles Lee_, I remember the hatred they brought. Achilles has shown me that I was right, that these men have eyes of stone, hold themselves above others in coldness. They are _atenenyarhu_, there is no other explanation, and Iottsitíson herself gave me the task to protect the village. We will be safe, all of us, and we take our first steps here."

Kanen'tó:kon looked at his friend sadly, a wistful smile on his face, and said nothing more.

The conversation bothered Ratonhnhaké:ton deeply. He felt as though Achilles had swept him off his feet as he had done so often in training. He was no longer certain of his footing, and he felt he needed to prove to his best friend that he was right, that he did not have to compromise his memories for a "cleaner," more accurate version of the truth. If Warraghiyagey and the others were not Stone Coats, then they were only _men_, and no person of sound mind could do what they did. It just wasn't possible.

The worry was only one more added on the long list that he was already suffering from. The tea was still at the docks, time was running out, stirring people into a frenzy of nerves, and Sam Adams seemed to be doing _nothing_ about finding William Johnson. Impatience was going to drive him berserk, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was running out of ways to distract himself.

Until, at last, on December 16, Sam breezed in.

"Connor!" he said, "I am so sorry that it has taken this long to get back to you. I can only imagine the stress this has placed on you, and I regret that deeply. But, I can at last give you good news."

"You know where William Johnson is?" Connor asked, anticipation filling him. He grabbed Kanen'tó:kon's shoulder, getting his attention to know this was important.

"I do not," Sam said, his smile going from pleasant to instantly irritating to the seventeen-year old, and he set his jaw as the assemblyman continued. "But I _have_ ascertained how he's getting the money to fund his purchase of you land."

That surprised him, and Connor quickly translated to Kanen'tó:kon.

"Most tea merchants in the colony smuggle in Dutch tea because it's cheaper," Sam said by way of explanation, "With the Tea Act making English tea cheaper and creating a monopoly, it would seem that Mr. Johnson has decided to take advantage of that monopoly. Mr. Hancock, whom I've introduced you to years ago, is the richest man in Massachusetts and indeed probably all of the colonies, he asked some discrete questions and was able to find out that Mr. Johnson – not a pauper himself – has invested his money into East India to give him a share of the monopoly. No doubt the revenue from his little endeavor is financing the acquisition."

Kanen'tó:kon interrupted, confused as to the details going on, and Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a quick summation. "The unrest over the tea that is here," he said softly, "Warraghiyagey is going to use the tea to make the money to buy our land."

His best friend nodded. "We must stop him, then."

"Agreed," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied.

"A stage requires a spectacle and I may know the play," Sam said once the two natives were ready for him to continue. "Connor, I want you to join me in the Old South Meeting House tonight. I know you don't like crowds, but find a seat with Mr. Molineux and Mr. Revere. Your friend may come too, if he wishes, and when I give the signal, you may execute the plan."

"What plan?"

"Sir, the Governor has one last chance to change his mind. If Mr. Rotch, who is riding out to where the Governor is currently hiding – since he's afraid to see the results of his work here in Boston – cannot get Governor Hutchinson to change his mind, then at midnight tonight the deadline is up and he confiscates the tea. If that happens, I will give the signal, and you and several others will take steps to prevent that from happening."

"How?"

"Why, we dump the tea, of course."

* * *

The meeting hall was _packed_ with people. Estimates were something around seven thousand. Women and children were so packed into the galleries that some said they would see the bowing of the platform. The men filled every pew, every corner, every inch of space, and once again the mid-December temperature, normally freezing, could not be felt in the warmth of the gathering. Kanen'tó:kon looked claustrophobic with so many people pressed together, and Molineux and Revere were sitting with Sam's cousin John. Stephane was also in the crowd, a few rows in front, and it was hard to hear anything with the talk going on.

**"**I hear they've resolved to send the three ships back – cargo and all!"

"Aye. But Governor Hutchinson refuses to let them leave. Wants us to take the tea, pay the duties, and say thank you kindly to the king."

"The King can kindly kiss my arse."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"You can kiss it as well!"

"Enough. What hope have we of resisting if we're arguing amongst ourselves?"

"If Adams keeps giving these speeches, he's apt to end up in stocks."

"They wouldn't dare!"

"I've seen men punished for far less."

"If the Tories think that'll quiet the people, they've another thing coming. They touch a hair on his head, and he becomes a martyr."

"Muskets'll do what words won't!"

"Quiet! You want to be hanged for treason?"

"There's nothin' treasonous 'bout callin' for freedom!"

"Tell it to the king and 'is cronies."

"Men like Adams - they talk and talk and nothing happens. Naught will change until we _act_!"

"Give it time."

"I've given more than any man should. We all have! There's no time left!"

Even through the talking and murmurs, it was a sight to see: so many people from so many parts of the colony, white and black and red, all gathered here for one singular purpose; to see what could possibly be done with the tea. Twenty days had passed since the first ship had landed, and that was the deadline. The tea had not been unloaded, of course, but now it _had_ to be, and the Governor had the power to do so by law and by force. If he did so, the tea would be sold at cheaper prices, a monopoly would be created, and at some distant date in the future the monopoly would be taken advantage of, or worse, another monopoly would be created with the precedence of the tea. The other colonies had succeeded in convincing their tea consignees to retire, to not enforce the law for fear of what would happen to the economy or, more practically, what would happen to _them_. Only Boston, with their openly adversarial governor, had failed to get the tea agents to leave. Hutchinson had put his own sons in charge as a show of obstinance, and refused to let the people have their voices heard.

Sam Adams was on the podium, allowing a man with the title of sheriff take the stand and read a deliberately inflammatory mandate by Hutchinson: that this very gathering was unlawful and subject to arrest.

The uproar was deafening, and for upwards of seven minutes nothing else could be heard.

Connor leaned in to Mr. Molineux. "What happens now?" he asked quietly – quietly being a vibrating yell to be heard over the screams of dissent.

"We wait for the signal," the hardware store manager replied.

"What signal?"

"Order! Order!" Sam was saying, striking his gavel to call attention back to him. "We must thank the sheriff for giving us this notification – no!" he said through the boos and backlash, "He is doing his duty through the arm of the Governor. We must remember these are not his words but the governor's, and through the governor the king. We have learned something important. We know what they feel now! We know what they think of this meeting! This meeting can do nothing further to save the country!"

Molineux snorted. "That one," he said. "Clever."

Molineux and Revere and John Adams all got up, Ratonhnhaké:ton and the miserable Kanen'tó:kon doing the same. Sam Adams was still at the podium, spouting fiery oratory and rhetoric, preventing people from leaving, and once outside the three colonists shivered in the cold, waiting. Slowly, over the span of perhaps twenty minutes, more people joined them, a swell of over twenty.

John looked to the entourage. "Evening gentlemen. Shall we be off?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton, who had been waiting and waiting to understand what this is all about, held his ground. "No."

Sam's cousin blinked, surprised. "What's the matter?"

"I have spent the days drawn from one bit of madness to another with nothing to show for it. I have broken up brawls and prevented riots because of the strain of the tea. I have been promised over and over that William Johnson will be defeated this night, but no one has told me why or how. Before I go any further, I would like to know exactly what it is you intend."

The lawyer frowned, thinking for a moment, before nodding. "Of course," he said. "Sam did say your priorities weren't _quite_ the same as ours. First, we make our way to Nathaniel Bradlee's house to fetch the rest of our little group. Then it's on to Griffin's Wharf, where we board the ships and dump the tea. Simple as that."

… _Dump the tea_? Sam was being literal? What good would that do?

"Simple seems a bit _charitable_," he said, his irritation showing.

John, not the fire-breather that his cousin was, smiled softly and patted Connor's shoulder. "Cheer up, Connor, for tonight we are all victors! The Sons of Liberty get to send a message to England and you rob William Johnson of his financing. Your village will be saved."

Ratonhnhaké:ton translated for his best friend, and slowly they made their way to this man Bradlee's house. As they walked more and more men began to gather, growing from twenty to thirty. At the house the men shrugged off their coats and moved to change their clothes, and at last Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon realized why Molineux and Revere had asked their questions, for the men changed into elaborate Kanien'kehá:ka costumes. Makeup tins were passed around, as were wigs to compliment the deerskin shirts and cloth armbands. "We are neither British, nor colonist, nor settler," John said with some weight. "We are _Americans_."

Stephane joined the swell of people; there were not enough costumes for everyone, and they moved through the dark streets. It was well after dark now, and nobody carried torches; they all knew where they were going, and they all knew what they were doing. In less than an hour they were at the wharf, and the ships all eyed their approach warily.

They walked up the gangplank, John and Revere and Molineux at the head of the mass. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon and Stephane at their backs.

"What do you want?" a man, perhaps the captain asked. "Who are you?"

"We're Mohawks," John Adams said. "No names. Just Indians. Just Mohawks. We're here for the tea."

"I won't have you harming our men," the man said.

"And we won't," John replied. "As we said, we're here for the tea."

Several men had already gone below decks, and some clumsily working the crane. One small crate, more of a box, really, was handed off to Connor. "You get the first round," Stephane said. "You have the most important stake in this."

Blinking, Connor turned and saw all the others looking at him, John nodding, and Kanen'tó:kon looking on confused. Emotion pricked in his chest, and he lifted the box over his head, showing it for all to see, and tossed it over the rail.

There were no more words after that. It was work to crack open all the crates, huge in size, to access the smaller boxes and dump them over into the harbor. It took the span of three hours, but three hundred-and-forty-two boxes of tea were dumped into the harbor, the scent drifting up into the frigid night air and gathering a crowd along the docks, wondering what was happening. It was eerily quiet, only the winter wind whispering about, cutting into several men who were not dressed warmly enough.

When it was done, the men, now over a hundred, disappeared to wherever they had come from.

The next morning Sam Adams already had a pamphlet written and sailing to England, describing it as a principled protest and the only option left to exercise their constitutional rights.

The next morning Norris asked why the entire city smelled of tea.

The next morning Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon smiled that they had destroyed the money Warraghiyagey needed to buy up the valley. They were now safe, and Ratonhnhaké:ton agreed that this was enough, and that the Stone Coat was defeated.

* * *

December 20 brought Connor back to the homestead, with Stephane and Norris in tow, though the latter quickly disappeared to inspect the mine's contents and determine if it was worth developing. Stephane followed his fellow Frenchmen, giving Connor time to talk to Achilles and prepare him to accept another student.

He didn't relish the thought.

But first he needed to share the good news.

Achilles was not in the house but in the back, staring out over the ocean as the sun rose over the cliffs. It was a rare clear day, the winter overcast broken and the sun blessing the frozen land.

He did not need to announce his presence, Achilles always knew when he was there, had an eagle in his own mind far older and wiser than the hatchling in Connor's own. He said nothing, did not move, did not give any indication of acknowledgement, but still Connor knew he knew he was there.

"It is done," he said softly, taking quiet pride in the success he, Kanen'tó:kon, the people of Boston had accomplished.

"... Johnson is dead?" Achilles asked, eyes still locked on the ocean. He was unmoving, still as the house behind him.

"No," Connor replied, feeling like he had somehow let Achilles down, uncertain why. He had stopped the man, prevented him from eating Kanatahséton "We destroyed the tea he was using to buy the valley. He was not there."

A purse of the lips. A slow blink. A deep sigh.

"Only to hatch some new scheme, I'm sure," Achilles said, tired. "You should have killed him."

"There was no need," Connor said. "He now lacks the money to destroy my people. That is a defeat, is it not?"

At last Achilles looked at him, eyes barely visible under his crumpled hat. The age on his face was more visible than normal, something had exhausted him during Connor's time away. "...Time will tell if you speak the truth," he said softly, before peering back to the water.

Uncertain how to respond to that, uncertain why the Old Man looked so tired, worried that he had somehow done something wrong, he tried to change the subject.

"... I have brought another settler," he said. "Norris, from the north, Canada. He speaks strangely but he is a miner by trade, and he's inspecting the mine by the river."

Achilles got up slowly, his cane shaking slightly before he settled into standing. His shoulders drooped, relaxing for the first time in relief. "If there's anything there, we can use the raw materials to craft our own tools. We still need a blacksmith, but part of the process is made easier for that. A good find, I suppose."

"... And I have found a man named Stephane," Connor added, suddenly very concerned about how the Old Man would receive this. "He, too, wishes to be trained."

"He knows of the Assassins?"

"... No," Connor said, wincing. "Only that we fight Stone Coats, and he wishes to be a part of it."

Achilles gave a deep, world-weary sigh. "I swear, boy, you'll be the death of me," he said in his papery voice. "Come on. Let's see what skill he thinks he has."

* * *

The new year of 1774 dawned cold, and Connor and Achilles once more had someone staying with them at the manor, to which Achilles often grumbled. Stephane and Achilles had had a _long_ private discussion and the Old Man had finally agreed to train him. Of course, most of the training of the new man went to Connor since he knew the forms and wasn't old and achy with a bad leg, so Achilles said. It was the first time Connor had ever had to teach. Achilles told him what to go over each day and when Connor finally asked when he'd get back to the training he'd been doing, Achilles just gave a strange smile and said teaching was the best way to learn.

Stephane did _not_ get a new house built. Achilles was firm on that. Instead, to the rest of the settlers in their growing village, Stephane was simply a new cook for Achilles. This ended up being more accurate than Connor had initially realized as Stephane was definitely a better hand with the food than either Achilles or himself, though his cuisine was different than the food of the white man that Connor had tasted thus far.

"It is proper _cuisine fran__ç__aise_," Stephane explained, "not that British slop."

Achilles actually chuckled to that.

Warren and Prudence still visited often. They had the basics of their farm started and had insisted on moving in once they had a functioning kitchen, explaining that they could sleep there as the rest was slowly built over the cold winter. Prudence, in particular, seemed to enjoy having Stephane around, as the two often discussed certain herbs and spices and what would go best with certain meats or wines. Warren confided to Achilles and Connor that such discussions of food often made his stomach very happy.

Myriam, finally healed, had declined having a home built for her and just disappeared into the woods to hunt, coming by once a month to share meat and furs for sale. Everyone was happy with the furs as some of them helped to stay warm while homes were being built. Faulkner kept bringing in money from his trade, as well as information from other colonies as he continued to build up contacts up and down the coast.

But as January started to come to a close, Stephane said he needed to get to Boston for supplies.

"What do you need?" Connor asked, adjusting Stephane's stance and taking him through the routine again.

"Proper tools," the chef replied. "The Old Man, he has good materials, but they are old. Without a blacksmith to sharpen them, I need new knives or my own way to sharpen them. _Capitaine_ Faulkner, he has a good eye for trade, but not for the needs of a perfectionist."

"Then we will go."

Naturally, once the others in the valley learned that Connor was making a trip to Boston, small requests started to pour in. Norris, who had been sleeping in the mines as he assessed them, wanted samples delivered to an assayer's office to make sure that it was the mineral he was certain it was so that he could properly open up the mine. The Freemans had a list of things needed to get their farm started, Lance needed more nails and bits of hardware, Myriam needed powder and supplies for her musket, Terry was looking to surprise his wife with a new vase if Connor could find one, and Catherine also wanted a new set of knives for her and Godfrey.

Connor sighed and hitched his horse to the wagon instead of saddling it. Achilles merely looked on with a twinkle of amusement.

Stephane sat with him in the wagon and, with the long list of items, the two headed to Boston.

"Why do you wear that hood?" Stephane asked as they rounded the Back Bay to reach Boston Neck and then enter the city properly.

"Anonymity."

"Oh?"

"It is something that Achilles explained as I started my training," Connor explained. "For you, entering Boston and being anonymous will be difficult. Especially after your killing that British soldier. But I am unknown to the Templars. None in the white man's world know me, who I am, or what I do. Some, like Sam Adams, know my white-man's name, they know some of what I seek, but not the reasons or the larger plan that endangers them. Even you do not know all, as you are still learning."

Stephane nodded, still looking confused.

"To the people of Boston I am either Spanish, or Italian, maybe some see I am Native, but none know my name, few even know my face." Connor gave a tight smile, thinking of Charles Lee and the Templars. "So that when I face my enemy, they will not know me. Or see me coming."

"Ah, _oui, oui_, I can see that," Stephane nodded. "That will not work for me here. I helped ransack the _maison du gouverneur_, and I have been in many a riot." He chuckled. "Too much of a hothead."

"Perhaps when we are in other places."

Stephane shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps the best I can do is to control my anger. I can't exactly hide my accent, and once you attach _fran__ç__ais_ with the face I might be in trouble."

To this, at least, Connor smiled. "Achilles is good at teaching control and stillness. That will help."

"As will avoiding alcohol," the Canadian chuckled.

Entering Boston, Connor decided to find a tavern to stay at in the northern section of the city, explaining to Stephane that he wished to avoid anyone who might recognize the chef from his rather bloody display from the last time they were there. It was also something that Achilles had mentioned. Never stay at the same place, always take different routes in and out of a city. It helped with anonymity.

The harbor still smelled of tea, even a month after the dumping of the tea, and every breeze in from the harbor brought the smell. Stephane couldn't stop the satisfied chuckle, but Connor did not comment. It wasn't something to take joy in. It was something he'd had to do to save his village, something that the people of Boston felt so cornered that they had to try in a desperate gamble. There was nothing joyful to find in being cornered. But Stephane was like Godfrey and Terry, enjoying a good fight once in a while, so he didn't comment.

One thing that both Connor and Stephane noticed as they reached the northern docks east of Mill Pond on Corps Hill was the people were still tense, unlike the rest of Boston. Many were quickly shuffling from one destination to another, and many of the men were looking hard at the other men in the area, almost with suspicion.

"It seems we have arrived in another tense time," Connor said quietly as they came to a small tavern that Connor had never been to before.

"_Oui_."

Connor asked Stephane to go see Sam Adams and to see if something else was brewing while he checked them into the tavern and made certain that their horse and wagon were looked after. He then spent the rest of the afternoon quietly sitting at a table sipping water and simply listened. The afternoon didn't provide much information, only worries and concerns, something about problems that usually came after dark, but not always. Stephane returned, saying how Sam didn't know of anything in particular, and the two sat down to dinner. Stephane offered harsh criticism of the cook in the tavern, but Connor kept his eagle alert, sitting in stillness and simply listening.

"They claim to be militia, but they're just _brutes_!" one man said.

His companion nodded. "The _Darmouth_ is long gone, we haven't had another delivery of tea from the East India Company, why are they still patrollin' the docks like they own it?"

"I heard they're harassing some of the merchants who've set up shop by the docks," the first said. "You know, the fish markets and such?"

"More like extortin' the way I hear it."

Hmmm. Connor kept listening, but many stories were the same. It seemed that some of the people who had volunteered to keep an eye on the _Dartmouth_ when it was in port had come to like the power of intimidation. They now roamed the northern docks, covering the harbor, Back Bay, both sides of Mill Pond.

Stephane scoffed, but looked away. He admitted, quietly, that he always enjoyed a good scrap, especially if he was tipsy at the time, but the ruffians patrolling the docks were far too familiar to how he would have acted against the British. "And these brutes are sick on power," Stephan sat back. "I could have been one of them. The British, they do not care for their _citoyens français_, and I've been so powerless against them for so long. I lost _mon père_, to the British, my home in Quebec, and once I had settled here I was to lose my home again."

They sat in silence for a moment. "I admit, Connor, that when I killed that man, who tried to take my home, I felt powerful. Satisfied. _Justifié_. But if you had not cautioned me, I might have taken that to others I felt had wronged me."

"To kill is always a heavy burden. When my people go hunting, we always thank the animals that we kill for the life they will give us," Connor said softly. "We thank them for their skins that cloth us, their meat that feeds us, their bones that we use for tools. Nothing is wasted and all is used. To be an Assassin, requires something similar. That man you killed, died because he would do wrong to many. My people call those such as him _atenenyarhu_, and we consider them cannibals. They will eat others to make their own way, instead of helping all. You have a better understanding of the Templars and what they do now," Connor put a reassuring hand on Stephane's back as he stood. "You are not like these gangs. You seek justice and freedom. You could not be swayed by simple power."

Stephane said nothing, looking down into his drink, and Connor headed to bed.

The following day had both Stephane and Connor going around the city for the various lists of supplies and orders for the homestead. Much could be gotten from a general store, but some, particularly the knives for Stephane and Catherine, Stephane got very picky on. Connor eventually left the Canadian to his haggling about knives to keep working on the list for Prudence and Warren. Once Connor had had all he could stand of haggling and trade, he returned to the tavern atop Corps Hill.

Upon arriving, he was surprised to see a man, dressed similar to a priest but Connor could never tell the denominations apart, sitting with a large crowd around him. Taking a seat and ordering his dinner, Connor observed quietly, as the redhead listened and spoke to two angry men who were having an argument over something. But the redhead weaved through all the words and was able to make both come to an agreement that they shook hands on.

A patron of the tavern came in, tipsy, and saw the crowd. "Oi, is it time for the Little Court?"

There was a wide array of chuckles.

"I'm hardly holding court," the redhead laughed, gesturing the man over. "I just talk to people that disagree and make them see eye-to-eye."

Connor turned to a patron sitting near him. "What is the Little Court?" he asked.

"Oh, that's just what we call these gatherings," the man happily supplied, his cheeks a bright red. "That there is Duncan Little, preacher of some kind, and he plays mediator in this part of Boston."

Connor smiled. Sam Adams and his cousin John and the Sons of Liberty always fought for rights and argued with England over laws and charters and constitutions. But this was perhaps the first time Connor had seen actual resolutions happening in the white man's world, even if it was small scale disputes. Idly, he wondered how the white man handled disputes of law. He had heard John Adams say something about defending the captain at the Boston Massacre, and he'd read about it in the news sheets, but Connor had never seen a proper trial. He wondered how they worked. Stephane returned and sat down to dinner and grumbled about prices being closer to robbery, before telling Connor that their order would be ready within a few days.

Connor nodded, but continued to watch the Little Court and learn.

Duncan Little was a soft-spoken man, his accent lilting as he plucked the feelings of the two angry people into the open to expose where such feelings came from and if it had anything to do with whatever the dispute was about.

The current argument was between a dock worker and a clay worker. Apparently the dock worker had ordered a dining set for an anniversary gift for his wife. The order provided only the plates, not cups or bowls, or anything else. The dock worker claimed it was simply because the clay worker wanted to get off cheap, despite having been paid the agreed amount for a full set.

The clay worker argued that what the dock worker got _was_ a proper set and to stop bugging him for more when all the wheeling and firing was expensive.

"I got t'ask," Duncan said to a clay worker. "If Sam Adams himself came to you and ordered a dining 'set' for a family, what'd you make?"

The clay worker frowned heavily. "I-"

"You woulda given a proper dining set to the head of the Sons of Liberty," Duncan said. "Ye'd be pleased as punch, I'd say. So what would a set be for him? Or John Hancock? Or me?"

"_Fine_!" the clay worker shouted. "I'll finish the damned set."

"Ye all heard him," Duncan smiled to the crowds. "He's promised."

"Thanks," the dock worker said.

Connor smiled.

"Well," Duncan said, tossing back the last of his drink, "I'm afraid that's all I'll be doin' tonight. I'll be doin' more of the Good Lord's hard work tomorrow."

Disappointed mutters came from the crowd.

"Leaving so soon? You never leave this early!"

"What's so important?"

"I'll be talkin' to the leader o' this little gang," Duncan replied lightly. "Imagine no more intimidation along here. I'm off."

And as he stood, Connor's inner Eagle gave a happy screech and his eyes focused immediately on the red sash so similar to the one Connor wore. He narrowed his eyes, watching. Having been around the colonists for several years now, Connor had to admit that seeing sashes outside of military uniform was hardly what one would call common. He'd seen certain clergy wear sashes, though he didn't know the faith, but that red sash over the white apron... Connor suddenly couldn't help but wonder.

"Connor?"

"I think we should help that man tomorrow," Connor said quietly.

It didn't take much to ask around and find where Duncan Little lodged, and the following day both Stephane and Connor found the redhead shrugging into a heavy coat. The breeze coming in off the water still smelled of tea as they approached.

"Top o' the mornin' to ye," Duncan greeted with a smile, but Connor already noticed his strong frame and tense shoulders.

"We wish to help," Connor said.

Duncan raised an eyebrow, eyes narrow. "I seen ye last night. Ye new here?"

"I am in town for supplies," Connor explained, hands folded neatly in front of him, keeping his back straight in proper posture. Sadly, given his height, that meant he looked down to Duncan as he did with most men, and Connor knew that some people could chafe at that. But the redhead didn't seem fazed. "We have heard of the troubles in this part of Boston and wish to assist."

"Well there's a first," Duncan said, both brows disappearing into his hairline. "Fer all the talk that Boston's some lawless bed of thieves, most people don't go getting riled lessin' ye intrude into their lives. Don't think I've ever seen strangers come to help anywhere."

"If one sees brutality and does nothing, how can one claim to be a person?" Connor replied.

Duncan gave a wide smile. "Now _that's_ an intrestin' view o' things. I'll admit I'll be needin' the help bringing out the man I mentioned."

"What do you need, _mon ami_?" Stephane grinned as well, cracking his knuckles.

Chuckling, Duncan looked to the sky. "Good Lord provides when y'aren't lookin' it seems." He looked to the two of them. "Let's see if ye can follow through. First step today is takin' out the enforcers o' this little gang. They're the ones doin' most o' the intimidating, and if we thin the ranks and send 'em home, then the _real_ bastard, Malachi, comes out. He's recruiter, leader, and all 'round savage. Good with a knife and happy to use it."

Connor couldn't quite stop stiffening at the word _savage_, but he recognized the context was not directed at him. "Then we will come with you."

They spent the day patrolling the docks and looking for the enforcers that Duncan had mentioned. With each encounter, Duncan tried to peacefully talk to them, but it never took long to turn to violence. Stephane had already improved since he'd started training, that Connor could see, and Duncan was quite good as well.

In fact, some of his forms looked familiar. Connor couldn't help but wonder again.

By afternoon, the enforcers seemed to know the three of them were coming, and either started to fight immediately, or just sighed and listened to Duncan weave his words and convince them to head home.

"This'll probably take a few days to get rid of enough enforcers," Duncan said as he invited them to the church he was staying at.

The Old North Church, technically called Christ Church, was completed in 1723 by a British architect who had rebuilt London after the Great Fire. The change-ringing bells, designed to mathematically ring out certain melodies had been cast in England just over twenty years later in 1744 and were hung in 1745. The church, Connor learned, was Episcopal, and one of the recognizable landmarks of Boston. Duncan and the pastor, Mather Byles II, were jovial and friendly. But Byles, from New London, Connecticut originally, was clearly a Tory who didn't care for the Sons of Liberty and their hullabaloo. Connor kept a firm hand on Stephane, advising against a fight and being remembered. Byles, for all that he was a staunch loyalist, was happy to have someone _finally_ stand up to the ruffians who were stalking the North End.

The following day was much the same, though Connor insisted on ending earlier since there were still supplies to get.

The next day, however, proved more interesting. "Now it's time to finish the job," Duncan explained. "While you were shoppin' yesterday, I was told Malachi just materialized from the ether and even his own enforcers don't have the stones, to you know... challenge him." He grinned broadly at them. "Until now. Time to fight fire with fire."

"Sounds quite _intéressant_," Stephane grinned just as broadly.

"Good on ye!" Duncan laughed. "That's one for the lads. Come on. Last word's he's fuming at Gree's Shipyard just east o' Mill Pond."

They headed around Corps Hill to go to the shipyard.

"Connor?" Duncan asked.

"Yes?"

"What's yer real name?"

"I am Connor."

Duncan chuckled. "Connor's a fine name if ye're Welsh. But ye're not Welsh."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "Not many white men recognize that I am not all white."

Duncan shrugged. "I traveled a fair bit afore landin' here. Ye don't look Spanish, y'aren't any sort o' African. That's a strong name ye got there. Ye should use it."

Connor shook his head. "My name is for friends, family, and allies. It is not for my enemy to hear."

"Huh," Duncan looked at Connor a little closer. "Ye remind me o' my uncle." He glanced down to Connor's red sash. "I'll have to tell ye about him sometime."

"Since we both have your name, does this mean we are all _amis_?" Stephane asked.

Connor smiled.

Malachi was at the shipyard, and was indeed the savage that Duncan had described. He bore a knife that he flashed about as he grunted and growled, yelled and shouted.

"Now that's a pity," Duncan said sadly as they watched from across Ferry Way. "A little boy drunk with a taste o' power and now he thinks he's king o' the harbor."

"Yet that is a power he does wield and we must rob him of it," Connor added solemnly. "For this part of the city to live peacefully, he must die."

Duncan nodded. "Even if we just shipped him off elsewhere, he's had the taste and will want more."

"_Allons-y_."

Duncan in the middle, still acting as a voice of reason, the three of them advanced. Many of the enforcers recognized them immediately. Duncan was swift with his words and, when necessary, his fists. Connor and Stephan acted as bodyguards. Any who got too close to Duncan who made clear his intent to talk with Malachi was taken down.

"So ye're the bastards," Malachi growled as they finally approached.

"That's what we should be saying about ye," Duncan replied. "Ye've been a bad boy, and the Good Lord's come to tell ye to shove off."

The fight was quick and brutal after that. Connor was far better trained than any of the men Malachi had left and he took down the majority of them before people even realized that he was the true threat. Stephane had left his cleaver behind, at Connor's insistence, but he also had strong fists for the brutes he took on, and his month of training was already starting to show an edge. But Duncan fighting Malachi was quite the sight. Malachi proved to have some knowledge of how to use the knife he always flicked about, but it seemed Duncan was prepared for that. His thick coat was actually three coats all layered together, making every glancing blow just that, a glance. Malachi's blade never touched Duncan's skin through all the cloth and Duncan was too swift for a direct stab to dig behind the cloth's protection.

Finally, Duncan pulled the knife out of Malachi's hand and drove it into the man's neck.

Any who were left standing quickly dispersed, leaving the three of them standing over the remains of the gang. "The Good Lord showed ye how to use power to make a point, Malachi," Duncan said, running his hand across his face and sniffling in the cold. "Ye turned around and used that power so that only ye could benefit. Best ye head back to the Lord's arms and learn from this. Rest in peace."

"We should go," Connor said softly.

Duncan nodded.

They headed back to the tavern that Connor and Stephane had been staying, each quiet in their own thoughts over the loss of life. Stephane, it seemed, had a better understanding of what an Assassin did after this excursion, and Duncan had a cross out, fingering its beads and murmuring prayers. Once at the tavern, however, Connor ordered their meal to be brought to their room and invited Duncan up to join them.

"Well it's been a real pleasure," Duncan said as they sat back, full. "If ye'ever need a hand in whatever it is ye're up to, I'm yer man."

Connor sat back, narrowed his eyes, and looked to this clergyman. "I have meant to ask," he said softly, "do you know what this symbol is?" He dipped a finger into his water and traced out the stylized arrowhead of the Assassin's Order.

Duncan whistled. "Well now, there's a sign I'd never thought I'd see again."

Connor nodded. "You are the same as us then."

Duncan and Stephane's jaws dropped.

"_Vraiment_?"

"I knew me uncle was one," Duncan finally said, after composing himself. "Got a wee bit a trainin' even, afore he was killed."

"Perhaps you would like to join us?" Connor asked softly. "What you did today, that is what we do."

Duncan gave a soft smile. "I'd be glad if ye had me."

The following day Connor and Stephane _finally_ finished getting everything on the list and Duncan went about saying his goodbyes, saying only that he was off to mediate somewhere else for a time. Stephane did most of the talking on the ride back to the homestead, explaining the training and some of the stories that Achilles had shared.

Duncan couldn't quite stop a chuckle.

"All this reminds me of being back in the Old Country," he explained. "Fightin' for land, fightin' for the right to see God 'my way.' Not much different from fightin' Templars. Didn't take long before I realized the fight was futile and stepped aboard a ship bound for the Colonies." Duncan looked away, quiet pain spread across his face. "People over there are so wrapped up in _how_ you perceive the Lord they forget we're all part of his flock."

Back in Ireland, it seemed, you were either Catholic or Protestant, and you hated the other. Having chosen one faith, Duncan had headed off as a missionary in Africa. After several years work, he'd returned to Ireland and left the Catholic Church. His family didn't care for that, so he boarded the first ship he found and it ended up in Boston.

"Stories change, Connor," Duncan said sadly. "The way people tell them evolves. It's no different in the Bible and I believe that's the real root of all the strife back home. But nobody wants to listen to me – if ye don't see it their way, ye're a heathen. But I feel we're honestly making a difference here as Assassins, from what ye've told me." He smiled at them. "Like what we did in Boston. That our presence is felt, if not appreciated, by all. Ah! And it makes me sleep easy at night and that's all a man can ask for really. It's all I've wanted for a long, long time."

"I would like to visit your home country some day," Connor said softly. "You describe beautiful land, even if the people on it are in turmoil."

Duncan chuckled. "Oh, would ye now? Ye'd turn a head or two on the Emerald Isle, I'll tell ye that." He laughed again. "The girls they'd certainly appreciate a big man like ye wanderin' around. Maybe one day, I'll muster up the courage, go back and I'll bring ye with me – would be good for a laugh at any rate!"

Connor shook his head, feeling his cheeks flush.

Arriving in the valley, the three of them started to unload various supplies with all the homesteaders to much thanks and appreciation. Ascending the hill, Achilles stood outside, as he always did, to greet them.

"I see we have another stray," he stated, looking Duncan up and down.

"A _nouveau_ recruit," Stephane said, grabbing his knives. "I'll start getting dinner going."

Achilles looked to Duncan with narrow eyes. The Irishman stood straight and walked up the steps. "I've worked in Africa as a missionary," he said. "I apologize for what my people have done to ye're people. They don't deserve that. Never have, never will."

Achilles actually straightened. "We'll talk in the study."

It was an exceptionally long interview, that both Duncan and Achilles left looking exhausted and worn. The important part, accepting Duncan back into the Assassins, had been brief. The majority of the discussion was a painful explanation of what was happening all over the vast continent of Africa as a result of slavery. Connor had thought that the white man would go into the wilds and capture the black man to sell. And there were many stories of that, of using red cloth that the Africans had never seen before as bait. A red cloth, tied to a string would lead curious men and women to traps and various other ways of simply using what people had never seen before to capture and sell into slavery.

And while the white man was indeed cruel in his methods of capture, the black man had turned against each other. Tribes would capture leaders of other tribes to sell, provide names and locations to be ransacked. Children were kidnapped because they were "valued" higher because the younger the age the easier to "train". As tribal governments fell and usual tribal tensions rose, it seemed like the black man was eating himself as much and more were sold into slavery. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not comprehend this. His tribe could no more turn on another tribe of the _Haudenosaunee_ than he could against a member of a different clan. It was horrifying and disgusting he could _not_ understand why no one did anything to stop this.

Duncan just shook his head sadly. He had tried while he had been in Africa, but had finally given up. He gave up his priesthood as well, so tired of trying to fix things. But, as an Assassin, he felt he finally had more options available to him. While Duncan still didn't wish to return to Africa and the painful memories the continent held for him, he was more than willing to help here in America.

Achilles had simply looked out the window sadly.

The following day training resumed, and Duncan showed that he remembered a great deal of what his uncle had taught him, as it had saved him in fights before.

Stephane swore sulfurously during the training, smiling the whole way. But he did bring one concern to Connor.

"We are running low on meat," he said one evening as they sat down for supper.

"I was to go hunting..." Connor flushed. Achilles had been telling him about hunting turkeys when Kanen'tó:kon had come bursting into the house with news of William Johnson's betrayal. He had been rushing to Boston and all around since then. He had quite forgotten.

Achilles only sighed. "The time for turkey is gone," he said. "Just find what you can and we'll be fine."

Connor nodded, still deeply embarrassed.

The following day, his quiver full, his hunting knife sharpened, he headed out into the vast forests of the property and beyond. Connor decided that he would first check with Myriam, who had a small hunting camp northwest of the manor. She was not at her camp, but he saw that she had been recently. Pelts were neatly stacked, already cured and dried, and barrels of salt were fresh for preserving meat, assuming the barrels didn't contain meat already. The fire was still cooling, meaning that Connor had only just missed her. So a quick look around and he found her freshest tracks and followed silently.

It wasn't for another two hours that he finally found her, crouched by some bushes.

"Connor?" she turned quietly. "Do you make any noise?"

He couldn't quite hold back the smile. "I have been hunting for a long time," he replied just as softly.

Myriam shrugged. "Been fixin' to trap a cougar I seen prowling about," she said softly. "Don't want the likes of that sort of mountain cat getting Diana's kids the way they wander around."

"Indeed," Connor agreed. "Their snowmen are fine, but this valley is still wild. I can find them roaming down by the river or the harbor."

Myriam nodded. "I turned them around a few times myself. They're far too young to be playing with muskets."

Connor did not think any age was appropriate for muskets after what he'd seen what the people who used them did to his village, but he knew that was his anxiety.

"Beasts snapped two of my snares already," Myriam continued, her eyes ever scanning around them. "Not more than a mile from here. I saw it briefly before it wandered off. Almost didn't." She glanced at Connor with a gleam in her eye. "Almost didn't see it on a count of its fur is white, mad as it sounds. Its hide would be worth a fortune to the right person."

Connor smiled as well, anticipation of the hunt already filling him. A white cougar? A challenge indeed. Mr. Faulkner would likely be the best one to get a good price for the pelt. More money to help with the property. Perhaps getting more supplies for the Freemans or helping to get a proper hut for Myriam to reside in. Or Norris.

Connor almost cursed. That was thinking like a white man.

But the challenge, _that_ was something Connor still anticipated.

"Do you wish assistance?"

Myriam turned to him, an eyebrow raised, clearly impressed. "Most don't bother to ask and assume a woman can't handle it."

Connor shook his head. "My mother fought in a war. Women are just as capable as men when a fight comes."

"Hhhn." Myriam gave a wry smile. "Maybe I shoulda been born to your people. They sound far more accepting."

"Cultures are difficult to compare."

"True enough." Myriam straightened from her crouch, hunched forward to slowly edge forward. "Truth be told, help would be nice. Cats are always too clever for their own good and I don't need to be surprised by this one. Chances are I'll never see the like again."

Connor nodded.

Together they edged forward, splitting apart but staying within earshot.

Three hours later, and Connor was starting to understand what it was they were facing. He had found tracks in the cold February snow, which Myriam had come over quickly to see. The paws were easily twelve centimeters long, making it likely the largest cougar Connor would ever encounter. And the depth indicated that it was likely male as well, with the deeper set implying a heavier cat.

"Damn, it's starting to snow," Myriam cursed. Flurries were blowing in, light and fine as the weather was too cold to produce larger snowflakes.

"We press on," Connor replied. "The snow will cover the tracks and we will lose it."

"Best hurry as we can."

With a definitive trail they continued their silent pace with more direction, still heading south. Another hour later and Myriam found an old dead log that had been scratched to bits.

"Look at the size of those claw marks!" Myriam hissed. "Better shoot true or we'll be dead."

"What worries me," Connor whispered, "is the direction. We are headed to the mines."

"That abandoned place?" Myriam turned, surprised. "Sure, it might call those caves home, but that just makes it easier for us, don't it?"

Connor shook his head. "Norris is there."

"Norris?"

"You have not met him, he is a miner and is seeking to settle here." Connor ducked under a heavy bough of pine. "He is sleeping in the mines while he assesses things."

"Damn fool to sleep in caves," Myriam growled. "Rocks are colder than wood."

"But he is there without knowledge of what is approaching."

Myriam cursed more vehemently. "Come on."

They followed the tracks, that were still being filled in by the falling snow, but there was an urgency to their pace. Norris might be in danger and with a cougar this large, neither wanted to be responsible for the death of a person.

"There he goes! We won't get another chance at this!"

Sure enough, ahead on the rocks, a white cougar, larger than any Connor had ever seen before stood, looking down at them. It let loose a hissing roar and turned to run.

Connor and Myriam both took off. Myriam was faster and more nimble, but Connor had more power and could deftly climb. They both surged up the rock the cougar had perched at and chased after him. As they passed, Connor noted the bones and carcass of a large elk.

Good. The cougar had just eaten. It would be slower and more sluggish after so large a meal.

"We won't see him again after this! This is our only shot!"

Connor leapt down off the rocks they had climbed and then again off another small set of rocks, down a path. Ahead was the mine, and echoing off the cliffs was a startled yelp.

"_Dammit_!" Myriam yelled.

The only safe way down the cliff was the narrow path the cougar had used and both hurried down, expecting to see blood splattered on the snow.

"_Merde! Merde! Baise merde!_"

At the base of the small path, a clearing down to the river was filled with the falling snow. Norris, in a thick, though worn, coat and gloves, was crab walking backwards as fast as the several inches of snow allowed, shouting something in French Connor could not understand.

"Norris!" Connor called. "Are you well?"

"Connor!" Norris stood, shaking like a leaf. "Am I ever glad to see you!"

"Are you injured?"

Norris shook his head and gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "You must be here for my new friend!" he said, smiling a bit too wide. "I was dumping a load and that monster feline went straight in to the cave," he explained quickly and with far too much energy. "Lucky I wasn't in there, _non_?"

"The mine is... blocked?" Myriam was looking in surprise as Connor finished helping Norris stand straight and checking him for injuries turned. The mine was indeed blocked, heavy wooden boards nailed together to form almost a door was blocking the opening and a mine cart was pushed up against it, holding it in place.

Norris gave another not-quite-right laugh. "Of course! We could not have that thing wandering the valley."

Myriam looked to Norris, once again impressed. "Well it can't stay in your mine."

Connor nodded. "What are you thinking, Myriam?"

The huntress turned to Connor with a cold smile. "Flush and fire. Cougars like to ambush so we'll do the same. Long as Norris stays clear, one of us goes in there to draw him out and the other waits out here to shoot."

"I will go in," Connor said.

Myriam raised a brow. "Normally I'd say enough male chivalry, but you got a reason, don't you?"

He nodded. "That cougar is fast. Very fast. We will need to slow it down and I am simply the larger obstacle."

Myriam narrowed her eyes. "You're better than me with a bow. Faster too."

"But you aim better with a musket," Connor replied. "And we need the power of the musket more than the silence of the bow."

Myriam nodded.

Norris was still trembling, but he stumbled over to a small wooden structure that Connor at first thought was an outhouse, but instead was a small shed of tools. He pulled out a long shovel and held it in front of him, no doubt hoping it would keep some sort of distance between him and the cougar. "I will move the door," he said, though his voice was anything but steady.

Connor shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around a forearm. If Myriam missed, unlikely as that was, the thickness would protect his arm and his hidden blade would do the rest.

Once everyone was in place, Connor nodded to Norris and the miner pulled the cart away and darted to the wood. With an ease that belied his smaller, more wiry frame, Norris hefted the wood and easily pulled it away, leaning it against the cliff side and quickly picking up his shovel, still shaking.

A glance back to Myriam and Connor slowly made his way forward. He had only been in the mine once before, when he was showing it to Norris, and he knew that there weren't any branching tunnels he needed to be aware of other than the one before him. He moved slowly and cautiously. Snow tended to deaden sound and entering the mine, he felt almost like his ears were opening as he heard the echoes of things. Each step seemed to create a thunderous sound as he eased forward, even though Connor knew that he walked too lightly to make such noise. He could hear hissing growls ahead, padded footsteps that sounded so much quieter than his own.

The gray light behind him dimmed as he went further, and he saw the flash of reflective eyes before, with a loud growl, the mountain lion pounced. Connor's arm was already up and he barely had time to lift it further as claws and teeth grabbed his coat. It was a big cougar. Bigger than even Connor and almost as heavy. He braced his legs as he was shoved back and tried to keep his balance. But the cougars momentum was too much, and Connor fell back. He flicked his wrist to release his hidden blade, but what had been thunderous sounds of his steps were quiet whispers compared to the deafening shot of Myriam's musket. One of the cougar's eyes exploded as the musketball pierced it and entered in to the animal's brain, leaving it as dead weight atop him.

Panting, Connor rolled the massive cat off of him and stood.

"Nice shot!" he heard Norris shout.

"Thank you, Myriam," Connor called softly. Though his coat was partially shredded, it was still wearable, and Connor shrugged back into it, knowing that he would need its protection from the snow and cold. A few pants to get his racing heart to slow, he once again reached for the stillness that Achilles taught him. Gently, he placed his hand atop the head and offered his thanks. Through this life, others would live. The beast was huge, but Connor eventually worked it around his shoulders and carried the large cat out of the mine.

Norris was looking to Myriam in wonder, his eyes almost shining, but Myriam only had eyes for the cougar.

"He's even larger than I thought."

"We should get to your camp so that you might prepare the pelt," Connor suggested. "Then I must go hunting. The Old Man is running low on meat for the winter."

"I have some that I just salted," Myriam replied. "You can use that. Payment in full for help with this beauty."

"I was merely bait. Norris deserves more thanks than I for capturing it."

Myriam glanced at the miner, but Norris was still stumbling over words.

"Thanks," she said softly, before turning back to Connor. "We'd best be going."

"Be safe, Norris," Connor waved goodbye.

Two hours later, the flurries were letting up and they both were stopping by a log for a break.

"That Norris fellow," Myriam said, "where's he from?"

"Far to the north," Connor replied, picking at the scratches in the sleeves of his coat. "A province called Quebec."

"I see."

"Have you been there?"

"Oh, oh no," Myriam shook her head. "Could never talk with any Frenchie, don't know the language." She gave a dry laugh. "He was scared silly, wasn't he?"

Connor shrugged, still looking to his coat. "He was scared yes, but he managed to think clearly when his life was in danger. I have not met many who might do the same."

"I...Yes, that's true."

With a heavy sigh, Connor already knew that Achilles would have him sewing the coat to repair it. "Come. It will be dark soon."

Myriam's cheeks were bright red, but given how cold it was, that was no surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happened in this chapter, and kind of not. First up: Boston Tea Party. Obviously, like in all our other fics, we held as true to the details of history as possible. Unlike the game Sam Adams actually never was at the Tea Party, though many historians believe he was totally behind it. The rather awkward line, "nothing more can be done to save this country," is widely believed to be the passcode to send people out and start the party. In the game the scene Old North Church is outside instead of inside, and there are no swells of crowds to show how critical this event was to the people of Boston. That was easy enough to fix, and by now you all understand that we used Ratonhnhake:ton and Kanen'to:kon as inspiration for Sam Adams to get everyone dressed as Kanien'keha:ka. We assumed it was obvious, but didn't say anything last chapter just in case.
> 
> We also have the start of a long series of conversations where various people try to convince Connor that Stone Coats aren't real. Kanen'to:kon is the most painful for him to hear, but his best friend will not be the first and is one of Connor's major character arcs in the fic. Hold that thought for late :P Also, Duncan Little, our favorite of all the recruits. Also, Myriam meets Norris. That won't lead to things... no not at all. :D
> 
> Next chapter: William Johnson part 2.


	11. Death of a Sachem

The meat Myriam offered was good, but not enough with both Stephane and Duncan at the manor, so Connor spent much of February out in the forests, catching, curing, and preserving enough food to finish the cold, short month, and also March and possibly into April, depending on how long winter lasted this year.

He returned with his yield and Stephane gleefully looked at the variety and started muttering in French about different recipes and eagerly took to the kitchen.

"He's a fiery man, that Stephane," Duncan chuckled.

"That fire will burn him to ashes if he isn't careful," Achilles grumbled. He turned to Connor. "It's too late in the day for you to practice forms, and too cold for these old bones. We've gotten more word from Boston and you'll be reading through those and analyzing how the climate is changing. You've a month's worth of news sheets and letters from that Committee to look through. We'll discuss it at dinner."

Connor balked. That was a lot of reading to get through and it was already mid-afternoon! "Old Man," he grunted.

"I expect to hear a lot of silence," Achilles called back over his shoulder as he headed down the hall to his room. "Reading requires silence, after all."

Duncan gave a low chuckle. "A harsh taskmaster, that man."

"That is one way to describe him," Connor replied.

"Let's get down to the cellar," Duncan smiled warmly. "I want to talk to you about somethin' and down there the Old Man won't hear a thin'."

"Very well."

Down in the root cellar, Connor lit the lamps as Duncan went to the portraits on the wall, staring at them. On a small table was the stack of news sheets and correspondences and Connor just shook his head at the pile. It would be a lot to get through.

"There was something I've been meaning to tell ye..." Duncan said softly. Connor turned. "I met your Da. It was a long time ago in London."

Connor stiffened, uncertainty and anxiety rising within him. His father. He knew little of his father. His mother never spoke of him, and all he knew was that he had betrayed her and she had left. Coming to Achilles, he'd learned how his father had betrayed his mother: by being a Templar. His father worked with Charles Lee, the _atenenyarhu_ who had destroyed his village. Achilles would sometimes share stories of facing off against the Templars during the war, but Connor still knew so little about the actual _man_ that was his father. He did not know what to feel, how to act. And so the anxiety rose and he clenched his jaw to hold it back, to reach for stillness.

"I was just a boy," Duncan stared at the portrait, his mind far back in a memory, "well, I didn't meet him really, just saw him do a fella in at the London Opera House. Me uncle..." Duncan shook his head slowly. "I was sitting in the balcony with that uncle of mine. Went to have a piss and when I came back, there's your Da. Dashin' as they come, he was, shirt, jacket immaculate. Me uncle was just slumped there. Looked like he was sleepin'. But I knew better even if I was a child. Me uncle taught me better than that."

Duncan sighed and turned. "Your Da locked eyes on me. And I don't think I've ever been so frightened as I was in that instant. It wasn't a fear that he was going to cause me pain, it was a sense that he saw right through me – into my heart – and he'd crush it if it pleased him. But he didn't. He just raised his finger to his lips and gestured for my silence. I complied. Then he was gone."

Connor tilted his head. His father, a Stone Coat who ate others, had spared Duncan? That was not in the nature of an _atenenyarhu_. Charles Lee and the Templars with him had left him for dead, content that they had eaten him. For his father to see one alive and not eat him... It was strange and it bothered Connor. His father was a spawn of the evil twin Flint. He should not have such mercy or compassion.

It confused him greatly, and did not ease his anxiety.

But Connor said nothing of it. Instead, he said softly, "He would have sailed for the Colonies not long after. I am astonished that you were actually there. In a world so vast and with so many people, you have seen my father, survived, and are now with me fighting him. Iottsitíson must have some plan in guiding you and me here."

Duncan gave another of his small chuckles. "You can imagine my surprise when I saw his face," he said, pointing behind him to the portrait. "Took me a while to piece it together but... there you have it. Thought you'd like to know."

To that, at least, Connor smiled gently. "Thank you."

* * *

The Committee of Correspondence was still sending word as people took to the meeting houses to worry over what England's response would be to the dumping of the tea. A Committee of Safety had been formed as a precaution and tensions were not unbearable, but still there as England continued to debate a proper response. Word that did reach the colonies from people who had visited Parliament did not look good, but the anger at how unlawful London had been toward the colonies did not dim. Word spread that Parliament wanted payment. The cost of all the lost tea was to be repaid to the East India trade company, and as word of that spread, the richest colonists all sailed to England in order to offer payment. The Prime Minister refused them.

Lance often spoke about this and how frustrating it was that for every step they made towards making the point that England was wrong, the English seemed to dig in their heels further and further. Godfrey and Terry, being more directly from the Empire in their conquered Scotland, were a bit more hesitant to go so far, but agreed that the heavy-handed approach very rarely ever got the point across. The debates the three of them got into were often heated, but always ended on a friendly note that as long as they worked together in the homestead, they could argue all they wanted. Especially where Godfrey and Terry enjoyed a good argument, it seemed.

The weather was finally starting to warm, and the Freemans were running about their farm, planting as fast as they could so that they'd be ready for the coming growing season, even though both the house and barn weren't quite done yet. Warren would happily talk about how, after this year's growth, he'd likely have enough money to start looking at cows and chickens to get milk and fresh eggs.

Norris was pleased with the mine, finding some sort of iron ore in abundant supply. Myriam wandered out of the woods from time to time, always with pelts to sell or salted meats. Terry's children still ran about the property, though after Connor had a firm talk with them about the dangers of the woods, they stayed closer to people's homes. Godfrey's children came by to visit and were happy to share how their apprenticeships were going.

Connor couldn't help but be amazed. It had been a quiet valley when he'd arrived, with only the manor and the Old Man. But now it seemed he was always going down the hill to join someone for dinner, or provide an extra hand. Achilles always told him to get going, that interacting with people was the best way to learn culture, and to get out of the house so that he could work more closely with Stephane and Duncan.

Had it really been five years? Connor had just turned eighteen and he still could not believe he'd been so far from his home for so long.

One morning, before the sun had even peaked across the horizon, Connor had pulled Duncan and Stephane out of the manor for their morning run. Duncan, who had lived this training as a child, had grumbled and groaned, but always dragged himself out of bed. Stephane, who'd never had this sort of training before, was always difficult to wake.

Once they were up, Connor started running. He did not go as fast as he would like, instead keeping a good pace with his fellow Assassins. When they finally paused and turned to head back, Connor would finally put on a burst of speed to see how far he could go. Then he would turn and walk back.

That morning, on the walk back, he was stopped.

"Connor! Oh, Connor, do you have a moment?"

Turning, he looked to his right and found Diana waving from down by the river, where she had a bucket of clothes for washing. "Good morning!" he called as he walked down from the path. "I see you are busy early."

Diana gave a light giggle. "You've been busy earlier," she noted. "We never see you go by, but we always see ye walking back. I don't know how you wake so early."

Connor shrugged. It was just something he did. "How may I help you?" he asked.

Diana hesitated, nervously pushing hair back from her face. "I... I think I need you as go between."

"Oh?" Connor blinked. "Have you argued with someone? I thought that was best left to your husband."

Diana laughed at that. "Oh, my Terry, he's a good one for picking a fight alright." She rubbed at the clothes and slapped them on a nearby rock. "No, it's just something that Catherine and I have noticed and we're worried. The farmers..."

"Warren and Prudence?"

"Aye," Diana looked to the clothes. "Catherine and I... we..." she let out a sigh. "Women folk like to talk just as much as the men," she said, looking out to the water. "Catherine and I, we talk all the time. We know that our husbands don't understand all we talk about and label it as 'mysteries of women', but we women need to be... social."

"And you have been most kind to me," Connor smiled warmly. "And to Achilles and Stephane and Duncan."

Diana giggled. "Yes, all the men folk about. But Prudence... we've invited her over for tea or dinner, her and Warren both but... they never come. Warren will drop by, offer apologies, he's always so polite about it, but we haven't seen hide nor hair of Prudence since ye introduced us. And she keeps sending our children back home saying a farm is no place for them." Diana shook her head in frustration. "If'n I didn't know better, I'd say she's terrified of us, but we don't know _why_."

That _was_ strange. Warren and Prudence were both friendly and open with Connor and Achilles, and Connor knew that Lance was happy to work with them on the farm with building their home and barn. Prudence _was_ weary of new people, but she didn't avoid them from what Connor had seen.

"I will speak with her."

"Just..." Diana looked down to her laundry again. "Tell her we're sorry. That whatever we've done to frighten her we never meant..."

"I understand," Connor said softly, his face as somber as the worry.

"Thank ye, Connor. Truly, we're blessed to have you as Lord of the Manor."

Connor shook his head. "I am no Lord."

Diana smiled warmly. "Ye might as well be. The best kind, the kind that fairy tales always speak of. The wise and just man who help all around him."

Blushing brightly Connor awkwardly shifted his weight. "I am no savior or knight. I merely do what I must, as any would."

"Not anyone," Diana smiled. "That's why."

Not liking this awkward conversation, Connor gave a polite, stuttering goodbye and headed back up to the path.

Connor considered going down the river to the Freeman's farm, but decided against it, Diana's words having flustered him too much. He returned to the manor, ready to have breakfast and hoping that whatever physical practice Achilles had in mind would finally put his mind back at ease.

Stephane and Duncan had already had breakfast and they were already down in the root cellar. Sparring if the grunts Connor heard were any indication. There was a small breakfast laid out in the kitchen for him, likely from Stephane, and Achilles was sitting at his usual spot, looking out to the ocean.

"Good morning," Connor greeted.

Achilles nodded, sipping his coffee. With the calls for boycotting British tea, coffee had quickly become the most popular substitute. "You're later than usual. Did you get farther this morning?"

Connor sat at his place and shook his head. "No," he said softly, his cheeks getting red again. "I was... held up."

Sharp, dark eyes regarded him and Connor could not quite stop the squirm. Eighteen. Even at eighteen he still squirmed under the gaze of an elder, be it Oiá:ner or a Roiá:ner such as the Old Man.

"Held up by what?"

Connor squirmed some more, his face getting redder and redder. "Diana..."

"Is a married woman."

"I _know_," Conner replied stiffly and vaguely insulted. "I would _never_...! It's just... she said that I..."

"Don't get me wrong," Achilles said, still sipping his coffee calmly, "it's good to know that you can at least _notice_ a woman. You've been so single-minded that I-"

"_Old Man!_"

"You were saying?" Achilles arched a brow.

Connor let out a long and heavy sigh, explaining how Diana thought of him as Lord of the Manor and how that bothered him so.

Achilles chuckled. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Those lumberjacks, they're from Scotland. They're relating to you in a way that they understand from centuries of a feudal system. It's not accurate or correct by any stretch, but it's something that they can understand. I doubt Lance or Myriam or even Norris think that way."

"No," Connor replied, feeling a bit better. "They have never said such..."

"And you might have noticed," Achilles added, standing, "that those lumberjacks defer to you _because_ they view you as Lord of the Manor. My heir. Lance, however will speak up if he disagrees. So will Myriam. Because they _don't_ see you that way. Culture, Connor. There are many and various cultures all around the world. They may seem strange or backwards or tilted, but by understanding culture, we understand the lens through which people view us."

Achilles headed down to the cellar and Connor was left with his thoughts.

The talk with Achilles was perhaps the first time that Connor really saw why the constant study of culture was so important, he saw why the Old Man sent him to the cities or had him deal with the business of the property. It was a way of studying culture up close and interact with it, and he couldn't help but start to think of the backgrounds that the people he had met and how that had shaped them into the people they were.

It was a different method of thinking, and one he wanted to adjust to before going into a city like Boston with its diverse peoples.

But that didn't change how Diana had asked a favor of him, so, by the end of the week, Connor was heading down the hill to go to the Freeman farm. Warren and Lance were in the barn, finishing up the building for the growing season. Christopher, Lance's apprentice, was outside, sawing at planks of wood.

"Hello, Connor!" Lance called.

"_Bonjour_!" Warren greeted. "It's nice to see you!"

"Hello. I do not wish to interrupt..."

Lance laughed. "Oh, I think you have some good timing. We could use a break." He turned to his apprentice. "Christopher! Come here, I want to show you how we did this..."

Warren also laughed, pushing back his straw hat and wiping his brow under the warm day. A cool late-April breeze blew through as Warren walked over. "I don't think I've ever thanked you enough for all you've done for us."

Connor shook his head. "I did nothing. I brought you here and Achilles gave the land freely to you. I had little to do with it."

Warren put a hand to Connor's shoulder. "You are far too humble a man. Come, let's take a small break. Godfrey and Terry will be by soon to help with the larger joists."

"I actually wished to speak to you about Godfrey and Terry," Connor said, "or rather, Catherine and Diana."

Warren's smile cracked a little as he looked down to the ground. "Ah... I suspect I know what you are asking."

"Diana and Catherine wished to apologize to Prudence for whatever they have done..."

Warren shook his head. "They have done nothing. They are not wrong..."

"But..."

Warren looked sadly out to the field, where Prudence was crouched and digging, continuing with the plantings that would give the farm their first yield. "It is... a difficulty that has been growing for years now. And it..." Warren shook his head again. "I will keep praying." Turning back to Connor, the dark man gave a soft smile. "You should tell those ladies that it is not their doing. Prudence will adjust... in time."

It was not an explanation that made any sense. But Lance had called Warren back over and they leaned over the framing, explaining things to Christopher.

Connor sighed, not satisfied. It was clearly something painful to discuss, but things needed to be discussed. Diana and Catherine were attempting to figure out what was wrong on their own with little information and were apparently coming to the wrong conclusions. This would lead to misunderstandings and perhaps hurt feelings. The Freemans had seen enough suffering and Connor did not wish for a simple matter of a lack of clarity to lead to more difficulties. So he walked out to the field.

"Would you like some help?" he asked softly.

Prudence looked up with a bright smile. "Oh, Connor! That would be kind of you. I could use a few minutes."

"Your methods of planting are different than mine. Would you explain what to do?"

Prudence gave a soft giggle. "Of course. I've seen your small garden up at the manor. Is there a reason you plant three seeds together?"

"They are the Three Sisters," Connor said, digging into the soft soil. "I suppose by your culture, it would be a religious reason, but it is a matter of harmony. The three grow best together, supporting one another and helping each other."

"Warren and I were thinking of trying that in a small garden to see how it compares. But we need to have our first yield before we try other methods."

"You are welcome to observe the garden at the manor whenever you wish."

Prudence smiled.

"I wish to ask a question, but I am uncertain if this would be... prying."

She giggled again. "Best ask. I'll be the judge of that."

Connor sat back. "I wish no harm to come to any in this valley. But I think there is a misunderstanding that is hurting people and I do not understand the root of it."

"A misunderstanding?" Prudence asked, her face confused. "I don't know of any..."

"Why do you not see Catherine and Diana?" Connor asked directly. "They believe they have wronged you in some way and wish to apologize."

Connor did not expect tears to well up so swiftly in Prudence's eyes, spilling over as she slumped back. "Oh..." she said softly, struggling to control her breath, "oh..."

"Prudence?" Connor leaned forward, worried he that he had upset her so. "I apologize, I have pried..."

"No..." Prudence bit back a sob. "No... Clarity is necessary but I... I..." She wiped at her eyes with a rag. She closed her eyes tightly, and held a moment of stillness. Given Connor's own difficulty with seeking stillness, he gave her the moment and sat back as well, letting her pick her pace.

After many moments of silence, Prudence took a deep breath. She was still crying, but she spoke anyway. "There is only one thing in this entire world that I have wanted, ever since I was young," she said softly. "All I have ever wanted was to be a mother."

Connor blinked, not seeing the connection.

"Warren and I, we have been together for ten years now. And we have been trying for ten years to have a child."

The enormity of that sunk deep into Connor, and the familiarity of it. He had been seeking Charles Lee for twelve years now. He understood far too well longing for something and the weight of _waiting_ and the toll it took. It was the greatest source of his anxiety, knowing that Lee was still alive and that he _still_ wasn't ready to face him. Warren and Prudence may not have been waiting for someone to die, and their weight was probably greater, because what they wanted was _life_.

"I am not getting younger," Prudence continued, tears still spilling down her cheeks. "There will come a time when I will be unable to have any children at all. And every day I get closer to that time. I have miscarried twice now. Warren thinks perhaps we should think of a life without a child... But I... b-b-but I..."

She was sobbing again, and Connor reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Seeing those beautiful children..." she sobbed, "I know it is wrong... but I _can't_! Catherine is so proud of her two boys, Diana is still herding her children about... And I _can't_..."

"It is painful to see others enjoy what you do not have," Connor said sadly.

"Please..." she whimpered. "Tell them that they have done no wrong... That I am... alright."

"I shall."

Prudence was composing herself again. "I worry Warren so," she wiped at her eyes. "I mustn't show him such tears."

"It will be our secret."

"Ah, the lumberjacks are here," Prudence kept wiping at her face. "Go and help them finish our barn. We'll need plenty of space for the grains, maybe a few stalls for a horse or two to help with plowing and bringing our crops to others..."

Connor nodded. "I am sorry to have bothered you."

Prudence gave a watery laugh. "You haven't."

"I have upset you and brought up your misery to the fore. For that I _am_ sorry."

"You're such a sweet boy," Prudence smiled warmly. "Your mother must be so proud of you."

The old ache in his chest seared forward and Connor looked away. "She has been dead for over a decade."

"Oh!" she said, her eyes suddenly wide. "Now I must apologize."

Connor smiled. "I think we have apologized enough."

Prudence let out a loud, bell-like laugh. "Oh, I think that is quite true."

Standing, Connor nodded. "Then I will help finish the roof of your barn. Perhaps then you will allow your own home to be finished?"

Prudence smiled.

Back at the barn, Lance and Christopher were still measuring planks over and over, "Measure twice, cut once!" while Warren was hitching up a pair of horses, one being Connor's strong mare, to the pulleys that would haul up the beams. Terry and Godfrey were already up in the rafters, calling down directions and needs.

"How may I assist?" Connor asked Warren.

"An extra hand above, I think," the farmer replied. "Those two are good at what they do, but they'll bicker over the smallest of things."

Connor nodded and easily scrambled up the wall to the beams above.

Terry whistled, impressed, and Godfrey called out a hello.

It was easy for Connor to walk along the beams and check in with both of them. "We are ready," he called down.

"First beam, coming up!" Lance shouted. Warren clucked his tongue and the horses started forward.

"Easy," Lance called. "The wind is starting to twist it a bit!"

"I got it!" Terry called, reaching out and grabbing one end.

"You skinny runt!" Godfrey shouted, "don't lean out so far!"

"I _told_ you I _got_ it!"

Connor was reaching out now to grab another part of the beam.

"Watch how you place-"

But it was too late. A strong breeze blew through and Terry, not balanced well, lost his grip on the beam and fell.

"Terry!"

Connor was in motion as soon as Terry lost his balance. He leapt on to the beam, ran to one end, letting the beam slide and tilt down to a sharp angle like many pine branches did. Controlling his slide, Connor wrapped his legs around the beam and leaned forward, reaching for Terry's hand, grasping the wrist. He did not have enough grip, but Terry did start to swing, sliding out of Connor's hand and landing hard on the ground.

"Terry!"

"Terry!"

"Damned fool!"

Connor released his grip on the beam and had a more controlled descent to the ground, bending his legs to let them absorb the impact.

Everyone was racing to huddle around the Scottish lumberjack, who was grunting and swearing. Christopher went tearing off, likely to get Diana.

"Terry! Are you hurt?"

But Terry kept swearing, on his knees and keeping one leg out and hovering over the ground. Finally the Scotsman glared to Godfrey as he came down the ladder. "I _told_ you I had it!"

"Argue later," Connor growled, coming forward. "Terry, _where_ are you hurt?"

"I'm _fine_, I—"

"_Where_?" Connor stood firm and unyielding.

"My foot."

Warren had run to Prudence and they were coming forward with a bucket and towels. Lance seemed to understand what they were doing and raced to the well and started to crank it.

Connor focused on Terry. He felt along the leg, trying to feel the bone as he had seen Oiá:ner do once. "The bone is solid," he said, but as he approached the ankle, Terry tried to jerk away.

"That _hurts_, you savage!"

"You _blockhead_! He's trying to _help_!" Godfrey cuffed Terry soundly on the head.

Connor's jaw tightened, forcibly reminding himself that Terry wasn't thinking and in pain, as he pulled out his knife and cut down the side of the boot. The brief touch he'd felt of the ankle showed that it was already swelling. It would be impossible to remove the boot without cutting it open.

"_Redskin heathen_! Don't go cutting up another man's-"

Godfrey slammed a hand over Terry's mouth and held it there. "Keep going, Connor."

"_Terry_!" That was Diana as she came running up, skirt hitched up almost to her knees. Warren and Prudence were there with the icy water and towels, which Connor used to clean the foot and get a better feel for it. Terry viciously fought back, mostly against Godfrey, but Connor was able to get a good start to see what was wrong.

Diana was by his side, also running her hands along the bones.

"Praise be nothing's broken," she let out a sigh.

"His ankle is twisted, as Lance's was," Connor explained. "But I can not be certain as he keeps moving."

Diana glared at her husband. "_Terry Rodric Blair, you hold still this instant_!"

_That,_ it seemed, finally cut through to Terry, who stilled. Godfrey hesitantly pulled his hand away from his countryman's mouth.

"Diana?"

"Yes, you daft fool. Now hold still and let's see how _bad_ this is." She turned and smiled sweetly to Connor. "Let me have a look."

She pulled back the cold damp clothes and gently ran her hands around the ankle. "Hard to say for sure," she said. "I think you're right and it's just twisted, but there might be a break."

"It's _not_ broken! I can't stay laid up for who knows how long!"

Diana looked at him firmly and raised a brow.

Terry turned and broke off into a quiet torrent of swears.

"Come on. Help me get him home and then we can wrap this."

After the excitement and getting Terry home, Connor returned to the Freeman farm to help finish the roof. It was more quiet and more somber, and there was a great deal of double checking, but Connor had promised Prudence that the roof of her barn would be done that day and he made certain it was. Christopher, after getting Diana, had also run up the hill to explain to Achilles what had happened, and Connor soon found Duncan and Stephane with them also helping to finish the framing of the roof and nailing in the shingles. The sun was sinking into the horizon when they finally finished, but Connor was glad to feel some sort of accomplishment after such a long day. Warren and Prudence were both glad to have the roof done, but there was a lack of energy with Terry having been hurt and the difficult conversations Connor had had with both of them.

"Cheer up," Lance said as they finished. "That Terry, he's as mule-headed as they come. He'll be back on his feet in no time."

Connor only nodded, still hurt at the words Terry had used in pain, but he kept repeating to himself that if Achilles could bear such words with grace, he would as well.

Even if he wanted to pound Terry into the ground.

The following day he walked down to see how Terry was doing. The Scotsman was still swearing up a storm and not caring for his bed rest. Instead he hopped delicately around the home, not using his ankle at all and grunted whenever the children ran by and brushed against him.

Diana was very welcoming and grateful that Connor had dropped by, offering many thanks for his trying to help her husband and the swiftness in which he went to treatment.

"I was the oldest girl of six children," she explained. "I've been treating cuts and scrapes and twisted ankles since I could walk."

"I am glad that your husband let a savage heathen look after him," Connor replied, not quite able to hold back his anger at the words.

"He said that?"

Connor looked away. "I apologize. I should not have said anything."

"_Terry Rodric Blair_!"

Terry seemed surprised he had used such words and gave a grunted apology, but Connor still felt better for it.

It took six weeks for Terry to get back to his feet and to say that he was bad tempered throughout would be an understatement. His usual grumbles turned easily to wild roars as he felt completely useless stuck at the house and unable to do anything. His attitude grew worse as, after Lance had fashioned a crutch, he hobbled to the mill and realized that Godfrey, working alone, was not getting a lot done. The arguments were long, loud, and even Achilles, who rarely left the manor, said he could often hear its echo.

But as April stretched into June, other news came in.

Sam Adams sent word that London had decided on what to do and it wasn't pretty. Boston Harbor was to be closed, strangling the city until the East India Company was repaid, despite the offers of the wealthiest colonists to do so. The entire Massachusetts government was disbanded and there would be no more elections. Any need of governmental supervision was to be appointed by either the governor or by London and town meetings were only to be held once a year. Despite the hard work of John Adams in proving that acquitting the officer in charge of the Boston Massacre, it was declared that Boston courts couldn't be trusted and any offenses would be tried in London. Travel would be reimbursed, but not lost earnings, meaning that witnesses and such would lose money if they were needed to go across the Atlantic and London didn't care. But while all this was directed at Massachusetts, the entirety of the colonies was now forced to give up homes for British soldiers. It was supposed to be any unoccupied home, but as Stephane could attest, that was not always the case.

The colonies were already crying out in outrage that their governments, some of which had been working peaceably for over a hundred years, could be brushed aside at such a whim. In another letter, Sam explained that Virginia, a colony far to the south, had invited all thirteen colonies to Philadelphia to discuss how to present a unified response to such Intolerable Acts. They would meet in September, and with Boston Harbor closed, colonies were already sending supplies so that Boston would not die in starvation and sickness.

Stephane shouted about _l'injustice_ and how the British were holding themselves above their own laws. Lance often echoed him, unable to believe that the British had not listened to the admirable Sam Adams who had proved his case continuously in his rhetoric.

Connor and Duncan had been having Dutch tea with Prudence, Duncan explaining certain herbs he'd heard of in his travels that might help with fertility, and Connor was enjoying a more pleasant conversation instead of the shouts and anger over what was happening with the colonies.

"Best I've heard of is Evenin' Primrose," Duncan said. "Now mind ye, I've never seen it work or anythin' like that. But people have come seekin' advice and offerin' it to others, and I'd guess that's the best bet."

"There is a small field of Evening Primrose just west of here," Prudence smiled. "We will likely be using the field next year, but I can perhaps get some cuttings, grow a small garden here of it..."

"Master Connor! Master Connor!"

Prudence hid her wince well and turned to bustle with the teas as Terry's son ran up.

"Easy there, boyo," Duncan said gently. "Take a breath so we can hear ye."

"But," the boy panted. "Dad and Godfrey are fighting! You need to stop it!"

"They're always fightin', lad," Duncan replied.

"Not like this, come on!"

The boy took off and Connor and Duncan followed. They ran up to the river to where the lumberjacks had been slowly clearing the forest and dragging the logs to the river to send down to the mill. The wagon that held the logs was almost bowing with the weight and the horse was flicking its tail, waiting to move as it munched happily on a nearby bush.

Godfrey and Terry were in a brutal shoving match, shouting obscenities at each other.

"Look how far behind you are!" Terry bellowed. "You shoulda been working harder!"

"_Harder_?" Godfrey yelled back. "_You_'re the fool who said he could handle that beam and got yourself laid up. I've been workin' my _ass_ off trying to do all this alone!"

"If you had just _listened to me_ when _I said I had it_, none of this would've happened!"

"Quit puttin' this on me! Shut your mouth!"

Connor immediately went for Godfrey, since he was larger, while Duncan grabbed Terry and yanked the two apart.

"There, now, easy now," Duncan said. "Looks like a few of us be needin' a break. Terry, I could use a nip, ye want to join me?"

"I-"

"I got a nice bottle up at the manor I've been savin'. Come on."

"Come Godfrey. Is the order Achilles placed ready yet? The fence will likely not last the winter."

With some very firm yanks, both lumberjacks were separated. Godfrey let out a heavy sigh once Terry and Duncan were out of earshot.

"We're running a bit behind on orders, Connor," Godfrey said, heading to the horse and pulling it along. "But I'm sure you know that."

Connor blinked, surprised. "Are you not angry, Godfrey?"

"Me?" the Scotsman chuckled. "Not at all! Terry's just got himself a temper and I won't let him get away with it. Neither will Diana. It's really no trouble. He'll calm down. The runt couldn't do much damage anyway!"

Connor creased his brows. "Does this happen often? I have not seen you two go at each other like this before."

"Ha!" Godfrey chuckled. "I was just telling Lance the other day how I can set the calendar by these events. I knew we were due for one and I knew it would be about him being laid up. It's not really a worry, Connor," he said with a warm smile. "But I appreciate your concern."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, we've been settling these kinds of scraps for years now."

"Very well."

Connor helped Godfrey with the lumber, loading what was in the wagon to the river and letting it float down stream to where it would catch at the bridge and then Godfrey and Terry would load them to the mill, rather than wear down the house.

The work took them well into the afternoon and Connor couldn't help but still be a little worried about the two lumberjacks.

He walked over to the Blair house and found Terry sitting by the well with Diana taking a clean cloth to his face. One eye had swollen to black and blue, with blood dripping from his nose.

"Are you alright?" Connor asked softly.

Terry only grunted.

Connor frowned. "Such fighting. There is no need for this. You normally get along so well, even with your arguments."

"Bah," Terry spat. "He's a block-head."

Diana firmly grabbed his chin and pulled his face back where she could see it. "He'll cool-off in a spell. Just needs some time is all."

Connor nodded and left, not wishing Terry's temper to attack him again.

It was a week later that Connor visited the lumberjacks again, and watched from the bridge. They were arguing, but that was no surprise, and were seamlessly pulling logs up from the river to bring into the mill.

Nodding to himself, it seemed that the two Scotsmen were fine again.

For now.

If they ever became so violent towards each other again, Connor would intervene more directly.

June passed into July, the summer getting hotter and hotter. Warren and Prudence, seemingly immune to the heat and humidity, worked with smiles on their faces as they tended the soil, built irrigation ditches, and continued building their homestead. The Scots women were less tolerant of the heat, often seen soaked in sweat and finding excuses to wash laundry by the river when they wanted to step away from the heat of the kitchens. Lance, too, worked up a healthy sweat, using the Scots different forms of wood to fashion furniture now that the main struts and structure of the farm was built. The days were busy, the nights warm; windows and doors were left open to all, the narrow halls of the house creating wind tunnels that cooled the occupants. Stephane and Duncan, both accustomed to fighting, advanced much faster than Connor when he first arrived to the manor in some areas, and were slower in others. The two actually complimented each other well, Duncan was even tempered and quick witted, while Stephane was passionate and aggressive.

The two were below, working through forms in the relative coolness of the root cellar. Connor was above with Achilles, discussing how to proceed with their training, and also planning Connor's next hunting trip. Myriam helped a lot, but she was just one hunter.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton! _Ratonhnhaké:ton!_"

The voice burst from the front door, and Ratonhnhaké:ton whirled around, seeing his best friend Kanen'tó:kon darting into the hall, his face pinched in worry and fear, turkey feathers flitting back and forth.

Anxiety filled his chest, and he spun on one heel to meet his friend. "Kanen'tó:kon? Why are you here? Has something happened?"

"Warraghiyagey has returned," Kanen'tó:kon said, voice louder than it needed to be with his fear, "with all the money required to buy our land."

… What?

… _What?_

"He meets with the elders as we speak," Kanen'tó:kon was saying, his desperation filling every syllable. "I have begged them to resist. But I fear he shall have his way unless you intervene."

His land... his people... all that work to prevent this _very thing from happening_. Fear and confusion burst in his chest in equal parts, unable to understand how any of this was possible! Warraghiyagey... Johnson... he was going to eat Kanatahséton! How?!

"How is this possible?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. "We destroyed the tea. That was the source of his money!"

"English, Connor, I cannot understand you."

The young native whirled again, seeing Achilles and remembering that he did not understand his native language. He quickly translated. "I do not understand," he said, "How is this possible?"

Achilles, however, did not act at all surprised. Instead, he simply sighed, pursing his lips as he had done many times before, the look of a man who was waiting for a student to understand a lesson. "The Templars are nothing if not resourceful," he said simply. "You should have heeded my warning."

"Please," Kanen'tó:kon was saying in their native language, "you have to stop him."

Yes. That came first. Accusations from the Old Man could come later.

"Of course," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Can you tell me where they are meeting?"

"Johnson Hall, in Johnstown," Kanen'tó:kon said, leading the way out of the house. "Many elders are there, including our _roiá:ner_. He is not optimistic. If Warraghiyagey buys the land, we will be overrun in less than a year, just as you said. I do not know what else to do. It is as you said, he is determined to eat our very homes. I see now why you call him an _atenenyarhu_."

They walked to the stable, Ratonhnhaké:ton saddling his black mare in record time as well as the old nag. They both mounted, Kanen'tó:kon with some difficulty, and they broke into a full gallop. Warren and Prudence, walking up to the house, startled at their rapid departure, and Diana and Terry's children both had to scramble to get out of the way of the horses. They rode south along the path until they hit the main road, and then turned west. Ratonhnhaké:ton had learned from their hurried ride to Boston, and he spared the horses and Kanen'tó:kon as he could. They rode through Amherst, stopping briefly for supplies, and then pushed further west over the Berkshires, crossing the invisible boundary of Massachusetts to New York, hitting Albany almost immediately and then turned north, and at last into Kanien'kehá:ka territory.

It was the second week of July when they arrived at Johnson's Hall. Built in 1763 by Johnson himself, when Ratonhnhaké:ton was but seven, it was less a home and more a homestead, with a grist and sawmill both on the property, as were the sixty slaves he owned and tenant farmers and other pieces of white man culture. Few were visible, all out in the fields doing their work, and Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered briefly what would happen to the slaves when his deed was done. Would they be free? No, that had to come second – the safety of his people was the priority. For the first time, he realized what Sam Adams spoke of so often, that change could not come all at once. He shook his head to the thought, however, knowing that there was a difference between waiting a few weeks to waiting decades, and he promised himself he would do something after his valley was safe and the Stone Coat was dead.

"What are we going to do?" Kanen'tó:kon asked. "How will we stop this?"

Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton realize he had no plan, only the resolution that Warraghiyagey needed to die. He took a deep breath, reaching for stillness, trying to calm himself enough to think. Slowly – _very_ slowly – a plan began to form. "You say that _roiá:ner_ are there, _hén_?"

"_Hén_," Kanen'tó:kon said, trying to get comfortable in the saddle. "Almost all the _roiá:ner_ from the Kanien'kehá:ka are there; our land is the most affected by the sale, and the Haudenosaunee thought it best to let us lead."

"Then we will just walk in," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We are two more natives in the coalition, who would say otherwise?"

"But what will we _do_?" Kanen'tó:kon asked.

"We kill the _atenenyarhu_."

Kanen'tó:kon gasped. "But he is _sachem_!" he cried out. "He speaks for us in the world of white men! He is a diplomat!"

"He is a diplomat who has just bought up all our land for other settlers," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his voice low and angry. "How is that the action of a _sachem_?"

"But..."

"What would _you_ suggest?" Ratonhnhaké:ton countered, impatient with the disagreement as he dismounted his horse and pulled off his hood and coat. He needed to look more native than white, and so the European clothes had to go. He put his wampum armbands over his bare arms, skin open to the air and running his hands through his hair, pressing his palms to his face and hoping his rough idea would work. He did not relish the idea of killing others, only the Stone Coat. Taking a deep breath, he looked up to see Kanen'tó:kon off the horse. He tied the animals to a tree, just outside the settlement, and the pair simply walked into Johnstown.

Nobody gave them even a second glance, the precious few that were not in the fields, women who ushered their children back to their skirts as they approached, their nervousness obvious. It filled Ratonhnhaké:ton with sadness, that no one could understand that people were people, and only culture was different, and culture could be understood. Sighing, he moved to the homestead.

The wood had been painted white, and looked like stone from the distance. Two men with muskets stood at the doors, and they said nothing as Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon entered.

Inside it was obvious where the meeting was being held, the familiar flood of Ratonhnhaké:ton's native language washing over him from the back of the house.

"Brothers, please," said one such voice with an accent that he could now identify as Irish. Johnson. "I am confident we will find a solution."

"We are not your brothers," said one of the _roiá:ner_.

"Do we not seek the same things?" Warraghiyagey. "Peace, prosperity, fertile land."

"You seek land, true enough," said the_ roiá:ner_. "Land that is not yours, nor any person's. Land is not a thing to be _owned_, a fact that our people did not understand when you came and asked to buy it. We thought you meant to buy the right to use the land as we did, we thought you understood that land is used and not owned, crops are to be grown and not owned, places in the hearth of the longhouse are not owned. We live in community, we live hand in hand, but you want possession of everything you can touch, and in your grasp for it you have demeaned everything the Haudenosaunee stand for."

"I only wish to keep you safe," the Stone Coat was saying. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon entered the room, the discussion so heated that no one noticed, and they sat carefully in the back. Kanen'tó:kon looked around the room, nervous to be around such wise men of the tribes, more nervous to know what was to come, terrified of what was to happen. Ratonhnhaké:ton practiced stillness as Achilles had taught him, as Oiá:ner had taught him. Anxiety was in his chest, and nearly unbearable, but Achilles had told him over and over to wait for the right moment. He focused his eyes hard on Warraghiyagey, focused his eagle, and slowly calm began to settle over him.

"There are those who would betray and manipulate you. Or worse yet - take the land by force."

"We are all too aware of the expeditions your people send against us."

"What do you mean, my people?" Johnson said, genuinely hurt. "We are all _one_! We should act as such."

"How?" pressed the _roiá:ner_. "By signing our lands over to you? Then we'll be as one - in your debt forever. Would you seek to own _us_ as well as our land?"

A different _roiá:ner_ spoke up then. "Warraghiyagey may have a point. What hope do we have against their black powder and iron?"

"The spirits will guide us as they always have," said a third.

"Did they not guide us here?"

"Yes," said the first. "That we might unmask the great betrayer."

"This is a mistake," said the second _roiá:ner_. "We should sign."

"Peace. Peace!" Johnson said. "Have I not always been an advocate? Have I not always sought to protect you from harm?"

"If you wish to protect us, then give us arms," said the _roiá:ner_. "Muskets and horses that we might defend ourselves."

"War is not the answer," Johnson said. "You know this as well as I. We both remember the French and Indian war, the arrogance of the British commander. I stood up for you then. You helped us take Lake George, and I mourned the loss of Theyanoguin just as the rest of you. I stripped naked to express my disgust at how the British treated you. We all of us were hurt by that war, you most of all. I have protected the Confederacy for years! I went all the way to Detroit to meet with natives such as yourselves, to prevent even more bloodshed, we know where that leads, fighting the settlers will do you no good. Let me take ownership of the land, we shall keep the Haudenosaunee, refurbish it with me at the center, so that I may speak for your people and prevent the distrust of the settlers."

The first _roiá:ner_ shook his head, voice becoming heated. "We remember Stanwix!" he said. "We remember you urging us to sign then, that it would create a permanent boundary and prevent the settlers from coming in and destroying us. We remember you said it would prevent war. And we agreed, one member from each nation of the Haudenosaunee signed that paper, and it was only after that we learned: We remember you moved the borders! Even today men dig up the land - showing no regard for those who live upon it. Your words are honeyed, but false. We are not here to negotiate. Nor to sell. We are here to tell you and yours to leave these lands. You and your British allies are not to be trusted."

"_Roiá:ner_ speaks the truth," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, having found his moment. "This man is not to be trusted. He is an _atenenyarhu_ who will eat our land and everyone on it."

He stood, and all eyes turned to see this youth who spoke out.

Warraghiyagey frowned at the youth, before turning pained eyes to the _roiá:ner_ who was so vocally against him. "Thought you might send one of your own to oppose me?" he said. "Besmirch my good name and label me a cannibal? Have you lost faith in me so completely?" Everyone was silent.

Ratonhnhaké:ton continued to advance, pulling out his _tamahac_, making several _sachem_ and _roiá:ner_ gasp and stand, but Ratonhnhaké:ton paid no mind, his mind focused and his chest strangely calm. This was what he had trained for, this was what Iottsitíson had bade him do: protect the valley, protect his people, to destroy the _atenenyarhu_. He lifted his _tamahac_, heedless of the growing horror around him, eyes only on Warraghiyagey, focused only on William Johnson, whose eyes were wide and very blue – like the stone of his true form – and strangely hurt.

He struck.

Blood splattered everywhere, and there was a sharp intake of breath, several cries of horror, as Johnson fell to the floor. Ratonhnhaké:ton knelt down, and silence fell over everyone, shock muting their voices, as Johnson took a deep, bubbly breath.

"Ah, no," he groaned, "What have you done?"

"Ensured an end to your schemes. You sought to claim these lands for the Templars," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.

Warraghiyagey's eyes widened, realizing just who Ratonhnhaké:ton was. His head fell back to the floor. "Aye," he admitted. "That we might _protect_ them. Do you think that good King George lies awake at night hoping that no harm comes to his native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them? Oh, sure, the colonists are happy to trade when they need food or shelter or a bit of extra padding for their armies. But when the walls of the city constrict - when there's crops that need soil - when there's," he coughed, a watery sound, and tried again. "When there's no enemy to fight - we'll see how kind the people are then."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "The colonists have no quarrel with the Haudenosaunee."

A bloody smile crossed the dying man's lips, filled with irony. "Not yet," he answered. "But they will. 'Tis the way of the world. In time, they'll turn. I... I could have stopped it. I could have saved you all..."

And he died.

"May the Faceless One grant you the peace you claimed to seek," he said.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Kanen'tó:kon said, standing up in horror. "You really did it!"

"What have you done?!"

"Did you hear what he said? He really _was_ trying to protect us!"

"He really did know our plight better than anyone. We should have signed!"

"Now he is dead, the only white man who could represent us!"

"Will we be blamed? What will happen to us?"

"What if we _are_ blamed? It will be war, and we stand no chance against their muskets! We will be slaughtered!"

"Who is this boy? Why is he here?"

This was most certainly_ not_ the reaction he had been expecting. Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, staring at his chiefs, uncertain how things had changed so completely. "My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," he said slowly, "from the village of Kanatahséton, of the Aniakchak:ka. This man, Warraghiyagey, is an _atenenyarhu_. He and others came to our village when I was a child and burned it down, killing my mother and eating many others. Iottsitíson came to me in a vision and demanded that I stop him and the others. Roiá:ner," looking to his village's chief. "You know I speak the truth."

But Roiá:ner stared at the boy, uncomprehending. "You mean..." he said slowly, "You mean to say that the boy I knew and helped raised, the child who cried for his mother for years, is now an _hirokoa_ – and expects us to believe it is the will of the _Sky Goddess_?" His eyes snapped to Kanen'tó:kon. "Did _you_ bring him here?" he demanded.

Kanen'tó:kon was just as speechless as Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Our land was about to be sold!" he said. "You said there was nothing to be done! What else could I do? We knew he was being trained to protect our people, it was the perfect time to call on him!"

"And did you know he would _kill_ Warraghiyagey?" Roiá:ner demanded.

Kanen'tó:kon squirmed. It was all the answer anyone needed.

"You have shamed us!" Roiá:ner said. "You have killed the only white man able to protect us! You lack the wisdom to lead. Oiá:ner was wrong about you, you do _not_ have the qualities to be a _roiá:ner_. You will never be chosen for this!"

Both young men were startled by the turn of events, and Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to save his friend. "I am the one who killed the _atenenyarhu_," he started to say.

"No! Do not speak!" Roiá:ner said. "You are dead to us!"

It was a punch in the gut, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was left breathless to the declaration.

"We must leave," one of the other _roiá:ner_ said. "We can say that we left unsatisfied, and will come back tomorrow. Let us be surprised by the death."

"You mean _lie_? Like the white men?"

It dissolved to chaos after that, many chiefs leaving others to debate what to do before William's Johnson's son John came to ask how the meeting was going. That made the decision for them, fear of restitution for Ratonhnhaké:ton's act making them lie in fear, stooping lower than anyone had thought possible, and left. Roiá:ner abandoned both Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon as soon as possible, stating firmly that neither would be allowed at the _hai-hai_ and that the two of them would have to live with the bad luck that resulted, his glare hurting more than anything he had ever experienced save the loss of his mother. He suddenly wondered what she would think of this. Uncertainty made his breath quicken, and he shared a horrified look with Kanen'tó:kon, neither one certain what was going to happen.

They rode northwest, into the woods, the game trails, the quiet.

Towards _home_.

Neither spoke for the first two days, neither willing to give voice to the horrible truth that they were about to face.

Kanen'tó:kon would never be chief.

Ratonhnhaké:ton had killed a man.

"... What if they return?" Kanen'tó:kon asked as they neared the valley. "What if there are more?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton's chest swelled with anxiety, the knowledge that there _were_ others: Benjamin Church, Thomas Hickey, Thomas Pitcairn, and _Charles Lee_. Would more incursions follow? Warraghiyagey, Johnson, he claimed to buy the land to protect the people living on it. That was of course sophistry, _atenenyarhu_ did not _save_ people they _ate_ them, but that the man seemed so sincere, was so genuinely hurt when Ratonhnhaké:ton made his accusations, that he was not certain how he was to feel about that. He had expected to feel gratification, relief that one danger had been removed, and his people that much safer. He did not feel those things.

"We should have listened to you," Kanen'tó:kon said. "Then, we might be better prepared to deal with these threats."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. Sharply. "No. Our people are not meant to fight, it is not our way. I will watch over our people, protect them from the dangers of the other Stone Coats, make sure that no one else bears this burden."

"But will it be enough?" Kanen'tó:kon asked. "Kanatahséton is small, yes, but it is not _that_ small. One man cannot protect us from all the threats that seem to surround us."

"It will be enough," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted, his voice loud with his anxiety. "Iottsitíson gave me this task, no one else. There is no need to trouble you when she has determined that I am enough."

Kanen'tó:kon looked at his friend, eyes wide at the strength of his voice.

Ratonhnhaké:ton continued softly. "I have already defeated one Stone Coat, and I am barely eighteen. In a year or two, perhaps three, I will be strong enough to have others defeated. By the time five years are passed, surely we will be safe."

Silence dragged out between them, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could not put off his one regret.

"Roiá:ner," he said softly. "He said you will not become _roiá:ner_. I am sorry. That you will not be part of the _hai-hai_."

There was a painfully long pause, and Kanen'tó:kon gave a weak grin.

"Oiá:ner will make sure I am at the funeral ceremony. And we both know I'd be too lazy to be _sachem_," he said.

"_Iá_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Oiá:ner said you would be a perfect _roiá:ner_ since we were children. We both knew it would fall to you. I did not have the qualities." He had no skill in mediation, he could never compromise his ideals, he did not rely on others. The last time he relied on anyone was his mother and... he did not feel safe to do so again. As a child he was compelled to do things himself, to figure it all out on his own, to push himself as far as he could, so that he would not be that vulnerable again. So that he would not be that _hurt_ again. Kanen'tó:kon did not have those worries, however, even after the fire. Kanen'tó:kon was healthier in that respect, he could listen to an _oiá:ner's_ advice and take it to heart, he knew what to imbue, and he was the natural leader of the children. Lazy though he was, he had the gift of getting others to agree on one thing or another, he could calm tempers and quell anxieties even as large as Ratonhnhaké:ton's. He would be a fine addition to the Haudenosaunee, but his gamble to bring in Ratonhnhaké:ton had destroyed that hope, and the young Assassin felt nothing but regret over the result of his actions.

"You must come to the funeral," Kanen'tó:kon stated firmly. "You must not have the evil brought on you for not being part of the _hai-hai_. Oiá:ner will make certain of that."

They entered the village at dawn, Kanen'tó:kon making his greetings and Ratonhnhaké:ton watching with the horses. Oiá:ner was still sleeping; he wanted her council, but was afraid Roiá:ner had followed them home. He gave a small nod instead to his best friend across the way, both of them sharing a look, before Ratonhnhaké:ton mounted and turned his black mare and nag back up the mountains and away from the valley. He watched the funeral and requickening from afar, hoping it was enough to prevent evil from befalling him. None saw him, though he knew that both Kanen'tó:kon and Oiá:ner were aware that he was there. His chest hurt, not in anxiety, but in something else as he finally rode away. This was the first time he had left his home not feeling refreshed but rather... regret.

It bothered him the entire ride home.

* * *

His mind was lost in his thoughts as he rode across Massachusetts and up to his other home, the Davenport homestead. Many of the settlers came out to welcome his return; Catherine and Diane and the children all coming out to wave, Godfrey and Terry stopping their work to watch, even Norris, walking the path up from the bay, smiled and welcomed him home. The warm expressions strangely vexed Ratonhnhaké:ton, he did not feel worthy of their well wishes when he felt this conflicted over his sworn duty of defeating the _atenenyarhu_. It should be simple, easy. How can a person be called a person when he or she saw wrong being done? Already, he had killed many Stone Coats, men who ate others: men who wished to eat Lance, or Warren and Prudence, or Myriam. It was easy, then, because it was clear cut: they would have hurt or killed any of them, and Ratonhnhaké:ton did his duty. There was no need to even _question_ it. But now...

The _roiá:ner_ were all convinced that Johnson had been their only hope, their only way to live peacefully with the settlers. How could they have been so blind to what Johnson was doing? Even Ratonhnhaké:ton, once he had realized Johnson and Warraghiyagey were the same, knew immediately that only ill could come from working with him. Even Kanen'tó:kon had seen the danger, why not the _roiá:ner_? And now the consequences reaped of his duty were not what he had expected. Now Kanen'tó:kon would never become _sachem_, his promising future denied because he had acted justly. Ratonhnhaké:ton, too, now suffered the wrath of his chief. Would Oiá:ner scorn him as well? He'd been too afraid to wake her in the valley, and now uncertainty bled together with anxiety, and he did not know what to do with himself.

Achilles was standing at the front door, as he often did when Connor returned, and stepped back into the house as the young Assassin dismounted and took care of the saddle and tack. Connor entered an empty house, Duncan and Stephane both gone. Achilles was in the root cellar.

Connor approached the paintings, moving to stand next to the older man, and stared up at the portrait of Johnson, Warraghiyagey staring back at him and looking almost innocent. His last words whispered in Connor's ears. "_Do you think that good King George lies awake at night hoping that no harm comes to his native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them?_" His words were true, though Ratonhnhaké:ton did not wish to admit it. He had seen how even Sam Adams, an enlightened man in many respects, had taken Ratonhnhaké:ton and Kanen'tó:kon and used them for his own purposes. He had seen how full blooded natives were treated in the cities, even as he saw how the slaves and freedmen were treated, with suspicion and malice. Stories of scalping enemies ran rampant among the colonists, a ceremony both sides participated in but the colonists would pay money for, making the Haudenosaunee and other nations victims of a desperate musketeer. But did that tension make it right to buy up the land, force his people off of it, and then say that he was "protecting" them?

He stared at the portrait, uncertain what he was supposed to feel. Achilles stood by his side, waiting.

"... I thought it might bring clarity," Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly. "Or instill a sense of accomplishment. But all I feel is regret."

Achilles looked at him, his eyes bright in the dim light, hard but understanding. "Hold fast to that," he said. "Such sacrifices must never come lightly."

"I had to do it," Connor said, looking at the eyes of Johnson, trying to see past them, through them, to get to the heart of a dead man. "Not only for my people, but for all the others Johnson would have harmed."

"That is why we do our work," Achilles said. "It is not meant to be a joyful task, it is not meant to bring pride or even satisfaction. It can only bring regret, but with it we can also bring solace. We rationalize that we are doing good work, and we are, but the way we do it is through slaughter. We are _i__roquois_, as the French has labeled your people: killer people. Many times, our work seems almost meaningless."

Connor turned to Achilles, surprised to hear such a reflection. "This is natural, then? The conflict?"

A slow blink and a widening of the eyes. "My dear boy," Achilles said, a brief flicker of surprise in his voice. "I've been worried that you _haven't_ felt like this before now."

That surprised Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Why?" he asked.

Achilles sighed, his dark hand gripping his cane and turning away from the paintings, hobbling back to the training ring and up the stairs. Connor followed, uncertain where this was leading.

"Connor," he said in his papery voice. "For all that you consider yourself an adult you are still a child. When your mother was murdered a piece of yourself froze in fear, and even now it has not melted, and you've yet to understand that you cannot grow until you move on. Since you were six years old you have classified these men as Stone Coats, as demons to be fought against. As a metaphor I find it quite appropriate; but _you_, Connor, don't see it as a metaphor. You think it is real, that these men really are demons. I can assure you, they are men just as we are. Just as Lance and Godfrey down the path, or Sam Adams and his Sons of Liberty in Boston."

He entered his study, sitting heavily in his chair, Ratonhnhaké:ton sitting across the way. "The Templars will eat people, yes, they would eat the very world if they could, but not in the literal definition you have given them. The Templars seek to own the world because they see themselves as shepherds, they hold themselves so above others that they think that _they_ are the only ones who have the right to steer humanity. Some of them are gentle shepherds, like Johnson; but many of them are so drunk on the power they have given themselves and use it to enact their will _as_ they will. The slavery here and down south is an example of that. The pioneer spirit that pushes people ever to the west regardless of whoever is on the land is an example of that. Even husbands who beat wives that dare show a mind are an example of that. I'm sure even in your village, sheltered and removed from European cruelty as it is, has men and women who hold themselves above others. It is a natural trait of humanity.

"This is why the Templar ideology is so pernicious: because we _all_ have the potential inside of us to be Stone Coats, as you call them. You have seen this yourself: you've killed bandits, abusers, and poachers because you so quickly identified them as the demons of your childhood. The night we met you killed would-be robbers without even blinking an eye. Your callous treatment of death has worried me for years, boy, but now I see you were just a child."

"... And now?" Connor asked.

Achilles leveled a long look at him, making him feel like squirming.

"... It's a start," he said. "At least now you recognize that this is not a childhood quest to rid the world of villains. No one in this story is a true villain, not as you believe them to be. Even Charles Lee-"

"He is _atenenyarhu_," Connor said, immediately cutting the Old Man off. "The others may not be all _atenenyarhu_, but _he is_."

"Don't be a child, boy," Achilles said with a sweep of his hand. "If you can acknowledge that Pitcairn and Church and the others are not Stone Coats, then surely you must see—"

"Not him," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted. His chest was tight with anxiety, thinking about Charles Lee as anything but a Stone Coat... no. There was no other explanation, no other way to justify what happened that day when he was a child. It had to be true. It _had_ to be.

Achilles gave another long look, this time filled with disapproval, but he moved on. "As you wish," he said in a knowing voice. "But to truly be free of Templar influence, all of them must be dealt with in turn. Even your father."

Ratonhnhaké:ton squirmed again. "I know."

This Achilles did _not_ let slide. "You speak the words, but do you believe them?"

"_Hén_."

"English, Connor."

"_Yes_, I understand," he repeated, irritated and springing to his feet. "I will kill my father as readily as I will kill Charles Lee, as I will kill the other men; as my duty as an _hirokoa_."

"That is not what I _meant_," Achilles snapped, his papery voice still thin, still soft. The whiplash of his words, however, immediately sent Connor back to his seat. Like a child. He chaffed. "What I am trying to get you to see is the weight of what you are doing. With Johnson's death you spoke of regret. _That_ is a feeling that will follow you for the rest of your life, and will grow with each Templar death you garner. It is a weight that has _crushed_ other men. _That_ is what it means to be an Assassin, to carry that regret with you all the way to your grave, the regret over the men you kill, the regret over the people you could not save, the regret of fallen brothers and sisters, the regret of broken friendships and lost dreams and dead children. And the greatest regret of all will be when you finally kill your father, because Haytham Kenway is a man so intimately tied to you that even your binary attribution of Stone Coat will not hide that regret from you. But even as you feel hesitation you need to understand that he and they _have_ to die, and for the exact reasons you have stated: For your people. And for the people they have not yet harmed."

"I said I _understand_," Connor insisted, even as he felt uncomfortable. He wanted this conversation to be over already, he didn't like what Achilles seemed to want to discuss, he didn't want to think about his knot of feelings about his father.

A long pause drew out, Achilles watching, Connor squirming.

"We can only hope that you do," Achilles said in a resigned voice. "Duncan and Stephane are on a supply run. They should be back by the end of the week."

"I see. I need to unpack."

"I am not stopping you."

Connor immediately retreated to his room, going through the motions of taking his things and putting them away before retreating out into the heat and climbing the tree he knew so well along the north side of the house. He had climbed it hundreds of times in his years of training, could name every knot and branch and twig he used just by feel alone. He ascended as high as he could go, leaning into the trunk and looking out on the ocean, seeing the _Aquila_ sitting at the dock, between voyages.

He did not want to admit the truth of Achilles' words: that this terrible feeling of regret was only the beginning and that it would only grow worse. Nor did he want to admit that he would eventually have to confront his father when he was so uncertain how he should feel about it – _any_ of it. Nor did he want to admit that _Charles Lee_ was anything other than the spawn of Flint, perhaps even Hahgwehdaetgah himself. The anger he felt at Lee for what he had done was unquenchable, even now as he slowly realized that his other targets were actually _people_, as Kanen'tó:kon had said in Boston, he could not believe that the evil that existed in Lee was anything other than the Evil Twin himself, bent on killing his mother by bursting from her side in birth. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not so arrogant to think himself the good twin Hahgwehdiyu – he could not grow maze from his _ista's_ body as Sky-Holder had done – but he could come up with no other way to describe the battle he was fighting. The Templars wanted to eat the world, and Connor and the _Hirokoa_ fought them.

But... he felt the regret. He knew what he had done to Kanen'tó:kon. He knew what the _sachem_ thought when they heard Warraghiyagey's last words.

It bothered him.

It bothered him for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, the first Templar is dead! It only took eleven chapters to get that far...
> 
> The memory is once again played a little bit differently by having Kanen'to:kon there with Ratonhnhake:ton as he makes his latest kill. In order to justify at least some of the break that happens later in the game it's important to see how Ratonhnhake:ton's actions affect others - not only his best friend, but also the village as well. He will visit Kanatasehton again, but he will no longer be welcome by anyone other than Kanen'to:kon and Oia:ner, one of whom has paid an extremely heavy price for killing Johnson. In other words, hold that thought, it all comes back again.
> 
> Ratonhnhake:ton is once again hit over the head with his rigid viewpoint and the price he is paying for being so unflappable. For the first time he starts to see what Achilles is telling him, but he isn't convinced yet. Charles Lee is a dominating influence on his view of the Templars and he simply can't let that go. And Haytham is its own gordian knot. Ratonhnhake:ton is split: he had one very specific idea about Lee and one very different idea with Haytham, and the two won't reconcile in his head for a very, very long time. Hold that thought as well.
> 
> Also, Prudence, we're starting to spin her plate and introduce what her struggles are. We actually pulled from real life, it took six years before we finally came to our mother and she often talked about the depression and anxiety she went through before she found out she was having us.
> 
> And Terry once again opens his mouth and inserts his foot. And Connor is still too young to shrug off foul language like that. Don't worry, though; he'll learn. He shouldn't have to, but he will.


	12. Giving Thanks

Time moved on regardless, however, and soon July passed and the heat of August settled over the homestead. Everyone was covered in sweat as the humid air was fought off only with the breeze omnipresent from the ocean. Warren and Prudence were hard at work, determined to get a decent yield in to feed themselves and sell the rest to the other settlers in the valley. Myriam came in with a wealth of beaver pelts, sailing with Faulkner to New York (since Boston Harbor was closed to all trade) to sell the pelts at a hefty price before she disappeared into the woods again after asking how that miner Norris was doing. Norris put in an expensive order for explosives, while the Scots seemed to be everywhere, up in the hills cutting down trees, floating them downriver to the mill, delivering logs for winter stockpiles, and delivering to Lance, who was making a detailed set of chairs for a client in Boston. Achilles' meager wagon was hardly healthy enough for the trade that was becoming a regular feature of the homestead, and Duncan and Stephane were once again off to Boston, this time to buy a new wagon with Myriam's money, this time with wire framing and canvas cloth covering it. Both Lance and the Scotsmen grumbled that they had no hand in building it, but without an experienced blacksmith it was agreed that they had to spring for one made in the city.

It was late in August, the heat a thick blanket covering the air, when Connor came back from yet another supply run with Faulkner. With Boston closed by sea, Faulkner took him to other locations, New Brunswick up in Canada, Long Island of New York, and of course Martha's Vineyard. The captain had let Connor try his hand at haggling, but had quickly taken over when it was obvious that the eighteen-year old native had utterly _no_ skill at insulting and barbing at traders to get a better deal.

"You'd be better off captaining a ship!" Faulkner had said, face bright with drink. "We'd best start calling you captain!"

"But you are the captain."

"No, no, lad, I'm the cap'n. We'll call you _captain_."

"I do not understand. Captain and cap'n mean the same thing, do they not?"

"Oh, lad!" Faulkner said. "How many times have you asked me to define all those seafaring terms? How many times you ever heard any of my boys actually call me _captain_? It all slurs together after a while, why not make the distinction? How's that sound lads! Oi, Clutterbuck! What say you? Let's call this little whelp captain!"

"Aye, aye, cap'n! Captain!"

"See? Two totally different meanings!"

And the nickname stuck after that.

He was still pondering what he had done to earn the title as he made his way south along the main path, thinking he could stop in on Lance and see if he had finished his expensive chairs yet. The manor needed new framing for one of the windows before the weather turned cool. The weather cooled rapidly in September, and by the end of October the framing would become more than necessary.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, when he found a wagon and camp had been set up by the road, a heavy pot sitting on a fire cooking something that smelled _delicious_, and a table holding a cask of something. Firewood had been dragged up to act like benches, Norris and Myriam sitting on one and both deep in their cups. Godfrey stood at the table, already swaying slightly; an elderly man at the table with him and a woman tending the cookpot.

"Hello, sir," the older man said, his head surrounded by the distinct curl of a powdered whig. "Would you like a draught of ale or some bread and cheese?"

"Connor!" Godfrey slurred, spreading his hands wide with pleasure. "This here is Oliver and that is Corrine. Great people! Ollie! This is Connor, the man I was talking about. The _lord_ of the manor!"

The heavy set man smiled graciously, holding up a placating hand and giving polite words. "We were passing through is all," he said quickly, "and met some of your townsfolk. They were thirsty and we had some barrels in the back and..."

He would _never, ever_ understand the settler's need to put certain men above others. He endeavored to correct the thought. "I am no lord and these are my friends, not my townsfolk. What brings you to the road with a cart full of spirits for sale?"

"We _were_ inn keepers until the King took our inn for some military such-and-such and left us out on our parts. Once that new governor, Gage, arrived back in May it's been all downhill from there. The church bells were ringing for days, mourning the general's arrival. Tory's are targeted left and right, all the soldiers holed up in Castle William just across the harbor, fights everywhere. The city's just not the same, and now we can't even stay there without our property possessed by the regulars."

Norris, bleary eyed, looked up from his guzzling. "'ey, you should settle 'ere. We could use an inn."

Myriam, even deeper in her cups than Norris, gave a hearty laugh. "Good idea!" she said, lifting her mug and unable to hold her balance, half leaning and half falling into Norris who turned bright red. She downed her mug and stood, the August heat having made her strip down to the thinnest of shirts and knee-high, men's pants, walking barefoot over to the table and waving her cup around for another serving. Oliver poured gladly, the dutiful host, and Myriam gulped down her mug in one impressive chug before slamming it on the table and uttering an ugly curse. "Damn fine ale you have," she said, face bright pink with the heat, she tugged at her open shirt, cleavage slightly visible. Norris' eyes, even drunk, drank in everything. "I'm off, then," she said. "You can put that on my tab. I'm off to get some pelts to pay for that. Norris! Walk with me to my camp. I want a piece of those explosives you ordered, see if I can use the powder."

Norris all but leapt to his feet, swaying slightly and quick to follow the independent woman, turning back and offering the silliest of grins before trailing after her.

"What a match those two are," the older woman, Corinne, said.

"They have a good idea," Godfrey drawled, leaning against the table. "You could settle here. We're starting to trade regular-like, we could use an inn."

"We would, most certainly," Oliver said, eyes wide with hope. "But without the inn itself we don't have much choice and building one isn't cheap."

Connor thought the solution was obvious. "We certainly have a need for something of the sort," he said. "I will speak with my friends at the mill and see what we can do about building ourselves one. If it can be arranged, would you consider ending your search here?"

The woman sprang from the cookpot. "Of course, Ollie! We'll have an inn again!" She hugged him, blatantly ignoring all sense of propriety in her joy.

Godfrey was already warming to the idea. "Aye, aye!" he said. "We can use that white oak we cut last spring, it should be cured by now, and Lance and we have already finished the Freeman farm, what's adding an inn? We'll have to send for more nails, and windows aren't cheap, but Myriam's furs net her a lot of money, and Lance's furniture sells real good. We should have enough to scrape together. Aye! What a grand idea!"

"This should suffice," Connor agreed. "Do you accept?"

Oliver was too busy hugging his wife back, the public display of their affection embarrassing. "Thank you!" he said finally. "You won't regret this Master Connor, we promise!"

"I am not-"

"Amazing! An inn again! What a retirement this is! Wait until we write the kids!"

All four of them, Connor, Godfrey, Oliver, and Corinne moved to the mill, cookpot forgotten in the elderly couple's zeal to get started. Terry was thrilled at the idea of an inn, and Diana gave her husband a long, steady look before agreeing so long as he only visited on the weekends. Next up was Lance, but he wasn't in his workroom nor his home, and so the Scotsmen went back to the mill to start picking apart their woodpiles and explaining what they would do. Connor moved north, over the river, to visit Warren and Prudence to give them the good news – and also delay in his telling Achilles, who was always prickly when he received a new tenant on his land. He winced at the thought, but how could he not help someone in need?

Walking up the path he found Lance kneeling over one of his carpentry projects, an open box of some kind that sat on small arches instead of legs. He pushed on one side and watched it rock back and forth, ever the perfectionist, before pulling out one of his beloved tools and sanding one of the arches. Warren and Prudence were looking at the open box with unhindered joy, and when they saw Connor's approach neither could contain themselves.

"You want to tell him, my love?" Warren asked.

Prudence did not even need to be asked. "I'm pregnant!"

Ah, at last. "Congratulations!" Connor said warmly, understanding how hard it had been for the two of them. "Ten years, you said, yes? The waiting has paid off then."

Warren's grin was so wide it split his face. "It's been a long time coming," he said. "We were so afraid to say anything, for fear of another miscarriage, but she's made it to her third month! That has never happened before, and surely it is a sign from God Himself! It does present a slight problem, however," he added, his joy briefly quieting. "There's no doctor for miles."

Yes, with the two expecting parents so worried about another miscarriage, it would ease their minds to have a doctor nearby. It would also be a help to Diana when she eventually had to treat another of Terry's reckless injuries. "Well, then we should find one," he said. "Have you any ideas?"

"I know of one that may consider moving here," Warren said. "His name is Dr. Lyle White. It's been a turn since we last saw him but you might try his old house in Boston."

"Yes, he was so wonderful," Prudence said. "He did not even seem to notice what we are, he treated anyone who had the fever. Oh, it was because of him that Warren lived through the night, I swear to it. He would be wonderful, he has a gentle touch and is very learned. He didn't care a lick about where a body came from, only that there was sickness for him to treat." She clapped her hands together, joy radiating off her. "At last! At last! A child! Oh, I'm so happy, Connor!" She turned to Lance, still fiddling with his creation. "Thank you so much!" she said. "A crib! I can hardly believe it!"

"A far cry better than building coffins," Lance said, wiping his forehead in the August heat. "Well, it will do for now. If it squeaks or if there's any problems, let me know."

"Oh, I'm certain it is _perfect_," Prudence said, kneeling down by the crib and rocking it back and forth. Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked up with such adulation that everyone smiled.

Achilles said nothing about the news of the inn, but actually managed to say, "I'm happy to hear that," for the news of the Freemans. A week later Connor was with Duncan and Stephane, riding south to Boston. Stephane was muttering under his breath, having preferred the quicker voyage by sea, and cursing _le nouveau gouverneur_ for his tyranny.

Boston had changed dramatically since Connor's last visit. General Gage and his troops had arrived in May, and as soon as the new governor had settled into office he had enacted one Act after the next. The entire port of Boston was closed to merchant ships, the royal blockade patrolling the harbor and four regiments of regular soldiers stationed either at Castle William, a tiny island in the harbor, or in the city itself. The entire Massachusetts governmental body was dissolved; all elected officials removed and instead appointed by the new Royal Governor, General Gage. All rights of self-government were removed and all power was delegated to Gage, a military commander who had lived in the Tory mainstay of New York City for years as royal commander of all soldiers in the colonies. Worse, all town meetings were banned unless consented by Gage himself, effectively making them outlawed. In June Gage had dissolved the entire assembly and called for new elections. Sam Adams had wrote of that, saying that he and the other representatives of the curious meeting taking place in Philadelphia in fall, the Continental Congress, had flat out refused to meet with the sham of a new assembly. Gage tried to out and out _buy _politicians after that. Sam had of course refused but rumors were rampant that Benjamin Church had settled his price.

Church's name had sprung up all kinds of emotions in Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Duncan and Stephane both held a firm grip on him before he set out to take care of the one Stone Coat who lived so close to home. He was still wrestling with the earlier conversation he had with Achilles, about regret and the weight of what he was doing and the humanity of these people he had to kill. Until it was settled in his mind, he wasn't sure he wanted to go after his next target, but at the same time he couldn't just stand by and let the Templar further erode the freedoms Massachusetts had left. Duncan counseled him best.

"Ye can't kill a wolf in his own den," he said, his brogue thick as always. "Ye can only lure him out. That man Church ain't goin' anywhere so long as he's a man to pay him. We'll have to wait."

That was the only thing that stayed his hand.

While Duncan and Stephane began haggling for supplies – Connor began searching for Dr. Lyle White. There seemed to be some word in Old Southie, where he was, but in the middle of his search he found a host of regulars camped out on the hills of the Boston Common, and many more entering into houses brazenly. One man was dragging a woman, bonnet missing and screaming to the top of her lungs, begging that he stop and not do this, not in _her_ home.

An _atenenyarhu_ was going to eat the woman, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not stand by and do nothing. He did, however, take Achilles' words to heart. Instead of moving in for the kill, he grabbed the man's shoulder, spinning him around and giving him a vicious punch to the gut, yanking the musket out of his hand and grabbing the soldier's pistol, too. Tossing them aside, he kicked the man down to the ground, certain he would not move for a long time, and turned to the woman.

She was utterly deaf to the world, still crying and screaming, and he slowly reached towards her, getting her attention, and getting her to look up. She stared at him fearfully, glancing at the incapacitated redcoat, and dashed for her home, closing the door. Connor could hear the locking, and knew she was safe.

A boy, about Connor's age, with a musket unlike any Connor had ever seen, approached. "Don't mean to bother you," he said quietly, "But I couldn't help notice what you done. Real good of you."

"Thank you..."

"Clipper. Clipper Wilkinson," the boy said. "It ain't right, what they're doing here. Ain't right."

Connor stilled, the eagle in his mind sharpening his observation. The boy's face was round, warm, but there were dark circles under his eyes, signs of little sleep. His curious musket was lean, well maintained, clearly loved, but the rest of him was ragged, worn, tired. "What is it that bothers you?" he asked softly.

The boy Clipper blinked. "... I'm the youngest of five," he said, as if that explained everything.

Connor waited, trying to follow the way of stillness.

"When you're the smallest," the boy said, "you don't get no respect. You ain't got the value the older brothers have, you're just a mouth to feed. This," he pointed to the crumpled soldier. "This is that. Them regulars, they think they're older brothers, to push around all us colonists til we're in a right fit. It ain't right. It just ain't right. The officer in charge of this here district, what do you call it?"

"Old Southie."

"The man what's in charge, he's like my pa, beat the little ones till they bleed to teach'em a lesson. That's fine if he's really a pa, but we here ain't his kin; he ain't got no right to set his men out to do this."

Connor nodded, beginning to see what was happening. This boy had a Stone Coat of his own to battle. "What is your plan?"

The boy blinked, surprised to get such a direct question, and he was left to scramble for an answer. "Uh... Kill him?" he said.

There was a word for this, one Achilles used often when he first started training. Ah, yes. Novice. "It is a good plan but it lacks detail. How is your aim with that musket?"

"It ain't a musket," Clipper said, suddenly standing straight. "It's called a rifle, see the ribbing on the inside of the barrel? That's where the name comes from; puts a spin on the musketball like you wouldn't believe, you can't miss nothing shootin' this. Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter mile nine times outta ten - and the ten's a misfire."

If that was true that was impressive. "That should do," he said. "Come with me."

They found Duncan and a cursing Stephane, just finished haggling for supplies, and Connor explained the goal.

"Seems about right," Duncan said, scratching his red hair. His black hat was pushed back on his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples.

"_Bien_," Stephane said. "We could use the practice."

The four of them settled on a much more concrete plan, placing Clipper as a sniper on a roof over the home the boy was certain his Stone Coat was quartered in. With him up and covering them, Duncan and Stephane knocked on the door late that evening, demanding to see the officer in charge, demanding about restitution for raping women.

The officer confidently strode out, already dismissing their concerns with a wave of his hand and, in the late evening, the August sun directly in Clipper's line of vision, he fired, and the officer's face exploded in a visceral display of blood and brain matter.

An hour later they regrouped, and Clipper was white as a sheet with the work he had just done. Duncan took over quickly, ordering the boy a weak ale and sitting him down in the North End where the former priest was well known. Connor watched, long and hard, as the boy came to grips with what he had done. This was the regret that had so pained him when he killed Johnson, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he had never felt that way when he killed before Johnson. Why? Was he truly stunted, as Achilles has suggested? Was his feeling regret now a sign that he was growing? Learning? What did that mean? What _would_ that mean, in the future, as he killed the other Templars? He recalled Stephane, looking up and taking a deep breath, and Duncan, giving last rites. Johnson... Ratonhnhaké:ton had spoken to him, in a way, bidding the Faceless One grant him peace. Was that the same thing?

"I want to fight like you one day," Clipper said suddenly, looking up and staring at Connor. "I seen you when you were savin' that girl. Powerful thing. I ain't never seen fightin' like that before. Where do I learn?"

Connor and the other three stilled, realizing what was happening. Clipper stiffened a little, uncertain what that meant.

"We are _Hirokoa_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said carefully.

Clipper blinked. "Don't none of you look like no redskin."

"_Native,_ lad. Show some respect."

Clipper only blinked again. "Some tribes like to call themselves redskins," he said, confused.

"I do not," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I see no reason to identify anyone by the color of their skin when it is yet another way people classify one person as better than another. We _Hirokoa_, Assassins in your tongue, strive for peace through freedom. And the Templars - they want only to control."

The boy's eyes widened even further, the dark circles more pronounced as he realized just what he had stepped into. He frowned into his cup, thinking hard. He was not bright by any stretch of the imagination, but he had heart, and excellent eyes. There was potential there. "Well," he said. "I'm for freedom, I know that much. If your Order needs a good rifle, sign me up."

Achilles was going to kill him.

The next day they went back to Old Southie, near Fort Hill and the rope yard. Warren and Prudence's map had been sketchy at best, neither were literate enough to read street names, but they gave an excellent description of where his practice was, and Connor let his eagle guide him to where he needed to go. The sign above the practice was smeared with graffiti, slurs and swears written over Dr. White's name. The windows were broken in, glass littering the street, and inside the front office had clearly been defamed. Connor looked about; Duncan and Stephane were loading supplies, young Clipper helping. He had assumed getting to the doctor would be a simple feat, but now he was more cautious.

A man stepped out of the office, harried and his clothes rumpled.

"Dr. White?" he asked quietly, hoping not to startle the clearly skittish man.

"No," said the man, adjusting his coat. "He's the drunken sot around the corner. If you can get his attention tell him I quit. All this ire on him... Not worth getting caught up in it. I have a family to think of!"

"What do you mean?"

"I've got to go," said the man, and powered his way down the street.

Now utterly confused, the young native followed the man's advice and went around the corner. He focused on his eagle, looking for that hyper awareness it brought to him, and his eyes naturally shifted to a man in a blue coat, sitting on a bench and nursing a bottle of spirits. Many people gave him a wide birth, looking at the forlorn-looking man with contemptuous eyes. This was not the picture the Freemans had painted, and Connor approached slowly, uncertain what to expect.

One person, woman, was not discrete with her judgment.

"Murderer!" she hissed, her voice not at all quiet.

The doctor snapped to attention, his long face turning into something angry. "You believe everything you read in the broadsheets?!" he shouted, standing up aggressively and advancing towards the woman. "You think those papers that pass themselves off as news are really worth of your attention? Of _anyone's_, now that the new governor is here?"

The woman shrieked, a shrill sound that gathered even more attention than the man's outburst.

"Go to hell, you monster!" someone shouted. "You'd attack a woman?"

The man in the blue coat was aghast, his face open in shock before defense colored his cheeks. "I did nothing wrong!" he growled. "It's the Redcoats! Open your eyes!"

"You make me sick!" someone shouted, safely hidden in the growing crowd.

"Doctor Death! You earned that name! Bastard!"

"You devil spawn!"

"_Leave me be!_" the man, the doctor, roared. " 'Tis all lies!"

Everyone glared at him; nobody believed him.

Wary of the others, Connor approached softly. "Dr. White?" he asked with his sandy tenor.

The man had brown hair, and glasses. He whirled, fists clenched, but Connor made no further advance. "Yes?" he asked, tone and face and countenance defensive.

Right. Go slowly. "My name is Connor."

"And what can I help you with?" Dr. White asked, still prickly. The crowd had not dispersed, and the doctor did not control the volume of his voice. One hand was still clenched around the bottle of spirits, and it was clear he was slightly lost in the cups. Not as drunk as perhaps the Scotsmen could get, or Lance when the mood struck him, but tipsy enough to not care for public appearance. That would not help. "Another quote for the broadsheets for you to... twist against me?"

"I am here to make you an offer," he said softly, trying to be discrete despite the doctor's brazen disregard for propriety.

White was incredulous. "Don't you know who I am?" he said, voice rising even louder. "I'm the doctor the Londoners have been slandering all over town. 'White Death'? No? Ask any of these sheep who believe everything that's printed in this town, they'll tell you all the lies that have been printed about me. Every wrongful death, every slanderous accusation, every sin that damned General Gage says I've committed. And why? Because I don't give a lick about who I treat! _I do a doctor's duty_!" he roared, passion making him even louder. He seemed to at last hear himself, and the energy drained out of him, making him slump back on his bench and stare at the buckles on his shoes. "I do a doctor's duty..." he repeated, an emotion of a different kind filling his voice.

The crowd was starting to disperse now, the show over and the entertainment done. Connor watched them leave, contemptuous in his own right that people could behave like this in the city. It was not like this when he was but a child, visiting for the first time.

… Except it was. That had been the night of the Massacre. He remembered that night all too clearly, the curses against the soldiers, trying to reach for calm, the snowball that had started it all, and the madness that followed. And the dumping of the tea, too, was its own share of madness. Perhaps it was the way of the settlers. Or perhaps Achilles was right, and that this was the way of men in general.

He didn't like that thought.

Still, he persevered.

"I was given your name by my friends Warren and Prudence Freeman. Prudence is with child and requires a doctor's hand."

As before, his head snapped up, but rather than indignant rage, honest shock colored his features. "Prudence is _pregnant_!?" he shouted, drawing attention again briefly. The information sank in slowly before he barked out one harsh laugh. "Ha! They have been trying for _years_ it seems."

"Over ten I'm told," Connor said, sitting by the man.

"By God has it been that long? Seems like only yesterday I met them. Never met a nicer couple. Better then these gulls who believe anything they read." His face bittered, but he pushed his glasses up his nose. "Do you know how long?"

"Three months."

"Excellent," the doctor said, all trace of sadness gone. "Oh, I'm so happy for them. My brother's wife was with child back in England, back when I was starting out, but that's a story for another day. They must be over the moon with happiness. What can I do?"

"They are worried," Connor explained. "Prudence is afraid of losing another child and Warren wants a doctor at her side, but there are none in the community where we live. They asked that I find you and see if you would consider going there, at least until Prudence has come to term."

The offer mulled over slowly on the doctor's addled brain. Connor watched as the impact of what he was asking slowly dawned on the doctor, and his fist at last left the bottle, and he leaned back against the back of the bench, quiet awe filling his face.

After almost two minutes, his eyes snapped to Connor again. "Yes," he said, stone sober. "Yes, I'll come. Maybe getting away from Boston is exactly what I need. God knows drinking isn't helping." He pulled out a corn-cob pipe and put it in his mouth, empty of tobacco and chewed on it before standing. "Exactly what I need..." he muttered again.

* * *

Dr. Lyle, as he preferred to be called, got off the covered wagon the instant they passed the path leading off to the farm and marched over with his black carrying case, heedless of the rest of the supplies he had brought with him and making a beeline to Prudence. Connor followed, leaving Duncan and Stephane to finish the ride to the homestead, and secretly hoping that _they_ could explain the presence of Clipper.

Prudence was overjoyed to see Dr. Lyle, and he immediately snapped that she sit down _this instant_ so he could look her over. Warren quickly arrived and the family disappeared into their home, the doctor marveling that they at last _had_ one, and got straight to work. Connor and Warren paced about the front rooms, neither completely sure what to expect before Dr. Lyle came in and asked a question. "Warren, I'd like to examine certain parts of Prudence, and I know how private she is about it, as well as her anxiety about people even as well-known as myself. I ask every time, but would you come in and watch to make sure I do nothing lewd?"

"Certainly doctor," Warren said with a smile. "You know I always do."

Connor blinked at the exchange, confused at first before he remembered that settlers had a distinct idea about privacy of the body; women in particular were expected to wear full skirts and long sleeves even in the height of summer, bonnets to hide their hair and protect their chastity, covering themselves to prevent unwanted advances. Women of the Haudenosaunee wore only skirts in high summer, as men wore only loin clothes, to allow the heat to leave their bodies quicker, and the idea of causing physical discomfort for principle instead of pragmatism sometimes caught Connor unawares. Another bit of culture he had to remind himself of.

He also realized that he had learned something about Dr. Lyle. The man had been relatively quiet on the ride to the homestead, his nose in a thin book of some kind and not socializing with the boisterous Stephane, leaving little time to learn more about the doctor and his dubious reputation in Boston. Now, however, Connor realized that he was a sensitive medicine man; sensitive to the needs of his patients, sensitive to their problems, and sensitive to their personalities.

When he finished, Dr. Lyle exited and asked several pointed questions about Warren's health, indicating the man had been very sick once in the past and making sure he was looking after himself.

After that they walked up to the manor, Dr. Lyle asking after the owner of the house after learning Connor technically was only a student there. Clipper was at the door, wide eyed and looking to Connor.

"You didn't tell me that a nigg-" he caught himself before he said a word Connor deeply hated hearing. "Sorry," he said. "Everybody calls them that in Virginia. I didn't mean no disrespect, it just sorta slipped out."

"Did you own slaves?" Connor asked, cautiously.

"Naw," young Clipper said. "Didn't never have no money. My family are surveyors, like that gentleman farmer George Washington. He ain't no orator like that Patrick Henry, but he's got a mind like you don't see often. But no, we done never owned nobody. I never liked the idea none, neither. Couldn't account why some men could be free and others not. I ain't smart, though, so I figured it was on account of something I didn't know. There was talk that the whole trade was dyin' out anyway. In Virginia it ain't practical-like to keep ownin' them, don't save the money like it used to."

Connor held his tongue, aghast once again as he realized that slavery was meant for nothing else than _saving money_. He would _never_ understand it.

Dr. Lyle, waiting patiently, cleared his voice and garnered Connor's attention. "Yes," he said quickly, "Of course, I'll take you to see Achilles."

Achilles was of course in his study, looking across his desk at the new resident of the homestead and saying nothing, clearly waiting for a reaction. After a moment, Dr. Lyle saying nothing, Achilles took the first step. He stood up slowly, grabbing his cane and hobbling around the desk. "I take it you're the new doctor I've been hearing about," he said. "Name's Achilles Davenport. I'm the owner of this land."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Dr. Lyle said, shaking hands firmly. "I noticed your limp just now. Gunshot, I presume?"

Achilles didn't react, though Connor was surprised to learn that the Old Man's limp – something he always assumed to be old age – might be the result of something else. All he said was, "Yes."

Dr. Lyle nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Someone assumed you were a runaway, I suppose," he said, setting his bag on the desk and opening it. That _did_ get a reaction out of Achilles, his eyes narrowing shrewdly and leaning forward slightly on his cane.

"The war, actually," he said slowly. "Battle of Signal Hill, up in Canada."

"Musket then, is the ball still inside?"

"No, but the bones were too badly damaged, and my doctor was already dead. It never healed correctly."

All of this was news to Connor, and he watched in wide-eyed shock that the doctor was able to deduce all of this – let alone pry out the information so _easily_ – just from watching the Old Man walk. From there, Dr. Lyle did a thorough examination of Achilles' leg and knee, prodding and poking before pulling out a bottle of something and rubbing the contained salve on the old injury. Connor looked at the knee, now realizing that the swelling he thought was old bones was actually scar tissue on closer examination, and he felt some modicum of shame that he hadn't realized it sooner. Achilles gave him a long look, indicating they would talk later (never a _good_ sign with the Old Man), and Dr. Lyle finished his examination.

"May I ask how old you are, sir?"

"I'll turn sixty-five next year."

"Well, I must confess you are in remarkably good health for a man of your age. I can tell you took good care of yourself in your youth; were that more boys could follow your example. I must also congratulate the success you've obviously found here, and the success of your homesteaders. I've never seen the Freemans so happy, and I've known them for years. Politely, and with a hopeful heart, I wish to settle on your property, and share in the good fortune that God has favored you with."

"One question," Achilles asked. "Why did you assume that I was _not_ a runaway?"

Dr. Lyle offered a soft, slightly sly smile. "Master Davenport," he said, putting slight emphasis on the title, "It is far easier to assume a man is free than to assume him a slave. Contacting officials over runaways takes up so much time, and Canada is such a lovely place to visit."

Achilles actually smiled. "You'll fit in rather well here," he said.

The new doctor left and Connor turned a questioning gaze to the Old Man. A dozen different questions were flittering about his head, but Achilles gave him but a glance before answering.

"It's a rare man who assumes someone like me is a freeman and not a slave. It takes a rarer man still who admits, in his own way, that he is an abolitionist. Those down south who run away know to come north. Not because New England is all that charitable, but because Canada doesn't have the slave laws that we do here. Canada is an escape, but it is a harrowing journey because of the rewards offered to men who capture runaway slaves."

After that was the long interview with Clipper. Connor and Duncan and Stephane waited patiently, neither sure what the outcome would be given his blatant reaction to seeing Achilles' skin color. Duncan explained to Connor that the poor boy had blurted out several words of unsavory nature, his mountain speak making him sound even worse, and that there had been a very one-sided conversation about how people were addressed in this homestead.

After that was an extended interview with Connor, who got a _very_ long lecture, _again_, about bringing every stick-at-naught stranger he could find to the homestead and further disturb the Old Man's peace and quiet.

"That doctor was a find," he admitted grudgingly, "But that boy Clipper will be a nightmare to train. He is utterly illiterate and has no concept of life outside of his own. Worse, he isn't impressionable like you were; he'll be harder to break."

Connor shifted in his chair, choosing his words carefully. "He does not believe in slavery."

"Perhaps not, but he's not an abolitionist like the doctor, nor does his ideology mean much in actually putting up a fight. He's a runt, and the effort it will take to train him will be phenomenal."

"... Was I any worse?"

"Boy, I've never _met_ a more difficult novice than you."

"Then it will be fine, correct?"

Achilles gave up after that.

September rolled on, the temperature steadily dropping as summer began to wane. The weather went from hot and muggy to warm and pleasant, then cool and pleasant. The inn was built in record time, Dr. Lyle and Norris having offered their own backs to the project and making the heavy lifting go by faster. Once the framing and siding was done, Ollie and Corrine immediately moved in, putting the barely finished kitchen to good use. Lyle stayed in one of the empty rooms, happy to sleep on the floor until time indeterminate, so long as he was close to Prudence to watch her pregnancy. He checked on her daily, and gave thorough examinations of every resident of the homestead, including Myriam when she appeared from the woods and Norris when he came asking for supplies.

Word came through of the Suffolk Resolves, as well. With the assemblies in Boston dissolved, many of the assemblymen had simply moved to Suffolk, and after a lengthy debate, had chosen their candidates to go to the meeting in Philadelphia.

"Do you realize just what this means?" Achilles had asked.

Clipper was clueless, as was Stephane. Connor and Duncan, however, were starting to realize the weight of this Continental Congress.

"This is the first time the Colonies are all united," Connor said.

Achilles nodded. "We have thirteen colonies spanning the entire east coast, all at varying states of age and development. Georgia is little more than a collection of hovels I'm told, while Connecticut and Massachusetts have charters and constitutions that are older than the British Parliament. We have wealthy plantation owners in the south and businessmen in the north; we have Quakers, Baptists, Catholics, Anglicans, Presbyterians, Lutherans, and Congregationalists; we have Europeans, Africans, and Natives. On paper, we collectively have no reason to agree on, for, or about anything, but England has managed, through their very actions, to unite all of us together against _them_. Even the conservatives in New York and Pennsylvania will be forced to deal with the fact that when Boston dumped the tea _all_ of the colonies were punished for it. The colonists may not see themselves as one people, but _England_ does, and so now they will have to _act_ as one people."

"You sayin' this never happened before? In history?" Clipper asked.

"Democracies have happened before," Achilles said, "Even republics. But never have several smaller parts come together to form a cohesive whole like this. Never have thirteen colonies under one broad and globe-spreading empire rebelled under their king's rule by democratic means. What must be understood is that they started through _legal_ means instead of jumping right to protests and riots. But not only that, they are now forming their own body, independent of the king, to decide what course the colonies must take. Even if they fail here, even if they cannot convince England to change their course, they now have the _experience_ of working together to lead their divided colonies in one action. They will remember this congress, and mark my words, they will have it again."

By the end of September the leaves were beginning to turn, brilliant reds and golds mixed with the normal bright greens. It was Connor's least favorite time of year, for the memories it brought, but he pushed through his anxieties and helped finish the inn. Faulkner's sailors thrilled at the idea of a place to eat and most especially drink, and the nights his crew was home became very rowdy, Godfrey and Terry at the forefront of the trouble, and Achilles giving level glares at Connor for bringing about the noise. At least he was when he wasn't down at the inn himself, partaking of the food and having a mug of German beer – his drink of choice, sitting by the hearth. If he wasn't at the hearth, he was challenging Connor to yet another game of Fanorona, determined to show Connor that his decisions created chains of consequences. Connor had yet to beat him, and he did not understand how a game could train his mind. He was a diligent student however, and he took solace in the fact that _no one else_ could beat the Old Man at the game.

Then, too, it didn't take long for a bowls field to be set up by the inn, Godfrey and Terry constantly playing in their free time and teaching Connor the rules. He bowed out of several games, simply because between his trained reflexes and his eagle, he felt like he was cheating. Duncan and Stephane were almost never at the manor anymore, ranging from joining Faulkner for that particular leg of their training or going on supply runs or even doing small assignments for Achilles: making contacts in Boston, keeping an ear out for Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty, trying to get an idea of what the other colonies were doing. Clipper spent most of his days in front of a book or leaning over a sheaf of paper and quill. Learning to read was quite painful for him, and Achilles was a strict task master – Connor knew from experience.

The first day of October, the day cool and sunny, Achilles was waiting for Connor after his morning run. The Old Man was standing in the dining room, looking up to the spot above the fireplace where a painting had obviously used to hang. The Old Man stared at that blank space often; as a child Connor wondered what was so fascinating about that particular piece of wallpaper, but Achilles had explained that paintings usually hung in such places. Now he wondered what had hung there before that made the dark skinned man stare at its emptiness with such contemplation.

"Should I search for something to fill that space?" he asked, approaching from behind. As always, Achilles knew of his presence even though Connor approached with silent feet.

"... No rush," the Old Man said, breaking his gaze away and hobbling through to the kitchen and around to the entrance of the converted root cellar. "Eventually the right piece will present itself."

"As you wish."

"There's a chest in a cave at the edge of the property," he said. "Could you retrieve it for me? I'd go myself, but these old bones prevent me from getting to it. Take Norris with you; the cave entrance was blocked years ago by a landslide, and you'll need that miner's explosives to get through."

"Yes," Connor replied. "What is in the chest?"

"... Something I buried when the Order died," he said simply.

With such a cryptic reply Connor's curiosity was peaked, and he moved quickly out of the manor, moving south to the main river. The Scotsmen were up in the hills, cutting down trees. Catherine and Diana were doing laundry, the girls having been roped in to helping. The oldest girl was blooming beautifully, and youngest not far behind, and Lance's apprentice Christopher was watching from behind a tree. Connor paid it no mind, moving down the path to the new inn, the Mile's End, and cutting behind it. Oliver was butchering a fresh ham for the night's dinner and waved, Connor returning the gesture and crossing the stream to Norris' mine.

The miner was at the river, panning it for minerals to examine.

"Norris," he said by way of greeting. "I am going to fetch something for the old man and he told me there might be some stone that requires clearing."

"Yah?" the Frenchman said, eyes alight with the possibility. "I will bring my _explosifs_."

In the span of a few minutes he had a small barrel weighing his arms down, and they walked down the path to the river, crossing the water carefully so as to avoid getting the powder wet.

"Myriam is interesting," Norris said, a glint in his eyes and a flush in his face. He looked as he did back in August, when Oliver and Corinne arrived.

Connor shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly not your typical colonial woman. A deadly shot and excellent hunter."

"She brought down that cougar!" Norris agreed. "She is strong. _Capable_. She had no fear of that cougar, just shouted orders and expected them to be followed." He paused, as if a thought occurred to him. "… She has no husband?" he asked, uncertainty coloring his voice.

Connor shrugged again. "Not that I am aware of," he replied. It was not his business at any rate, she had made it clear she wanted to live her own way and Connor, an outcast of his village and given a mission from the Sky Goddess herself, could not find fault.

Norris' eyes seemed to brighten even further at the comment. "I never met a woman like her before," he said, voice deeply affectionate, a smile on his face even as he carried several pounds of black powder. "I would like to know her better."

"You should speak to her then," Connor said, uncertain what the miner was getting at.

"I might try," he said dreamily. "Do you think she likes French men?"

Connor did not have the chance to comment as they reached the obvious signs of a landslide. The cliff was nearly vertical, and though the mud piles could be swept away, the massive boulder of shist could not. It was obvious why the Old Man wanted the miner's services, and Norris got right to work, taking his powder and examining the stone to find the best places to set the explosives. In the span of twenty minutes the fuse was lit and the entire valley seemed to shake with the concussive blast of the powder. Ears ringing, Connor _thought_ he managed to thank his friend.

"_Pas de probléme_," Norris replied. "_Bienvenue._ I'll be at the mine if you need anything else."

Beyond the mouth of the cave was a long pitch of darkness. It extended easily three hundred feet and deeper, and Connor manufactured a quick torch to make sure he could see as he progressed further in. At the very back was a shaft of light, a hole above giving just enough sun to see by, and under it was an old chest. It had been there for years, perhaps even decades, and on the front of the chest was the stylized arrowhead of the Assassin symbol. Connor picked up the chest, hearing no rattle, and backtracked through the cave and eventually back up the path. By then it was midafternoon. Clipper was out for his run, dashing past Connor with a face pink from exertion.

At the manor, Achilles was in the root cellar, back by the paintings, obviously waiting.

"I have found the chest," he said. "But what is inside it?"

Achilles motioned and Connor put the chest on the table. "I put it somewhere I knew only I could reach, but that was a long time ago." He examined the lock, before grabbing Connor's wrist and extracting its hidden blade, using it as a key to open the chest. Inside was cloth, worn and moth-eaten, but inside that was an ancient cloak of some kind.

"Who does _that_ belong to?" Connor asked, amazed the cloth was as intact as it was.

"These were the robes of the first Assassin to come to the colonies," Achilles said. "We used to bring it out and show the novices, to let them know just how long we have been here, to give a hint of how old we are. Now that we have three more novices, it's time to talk to them about the same things."

"May I ask," Connor said. "What happened to the Order before I came?"

"... The war destroyed us," Achilles said.

That evening the novices were all gathered together, and Achilles showed them the old coat and hood, talked about the first Assassin of the colonies, as well as the first Assassin of the modern order: Altaïr ibn La'Ahad, and the greatest Mentor of the brotherhood: Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Connor had heard this history before, and watched the faces of the others as they realized the age and strength of their order. Young Clipper was a wide-eyed child, all of this new to him and beyond the scope of the comparatively small world he had lived in up until this point. Duncan's uncle had been an Assassin, but some – much – of the history had never been told to him, and he nodded at certain areas of the story that explained something to him, occasionally asking a question on a historical figure he already knew about. Stephane listened like it was an old bar tale, passionate curses falling out of his mouth when some particular detail struck him. Conversation after that lasted long into the night, Connor sharing the few extra pieces he knew, and all of them wondering what had happened to the Order during the French and Indian war.

"The fever came," Achilles said simply, "And it took many of us. Those that survived were shells of ourselves, ripe for the slaughter by Haytham Kenway and his new Colonial Rite. He used the war as a screen to draw us out, pulling us further and further from the shadows and into the open, until there were none of us left. Then he sent a letter saying he was an amiable person and would generously let me live with the shame of my defeat."

He left without another word, withdrawing to his room and closing the door, leaving the others and particularly Connor breathless with the brevity and the brutality of the tale.

Haytham Kenway... every time his name was brought up Connor learned some new facet of the man's evil deeds: the betrayal of his mother, the death of his village, the destruction of the Assassin Order, the manipulation of politics to keep the British in power. Nothing seemed to be good about the man, and yet Ratonhnhaké:ton could not bring himself to hate the man as he did Charles Lee. The young native could not understand why his feelings were so conflicted. The man was arrogant enough to send a cordial letter to Achilles, "generously" letting him live. How could he _not_ hate the man?

But he didn't, and he didn't know why, and he shied away from trying to find the answer. Could he assassinate his own father? He would know when the time came. It was the will of the Sky Goddess, after all.

He tried to tell himself that was enough.

* * *

October dawned chilly, the temperature steadily dropping and the colors turning more vibrant. Everyone was out sweeping their steps of falling leaves. It was a great push to put the foundation of Dr. Lyle's house in before the first freeze, and the middle aged doctor was soon pulled from helping build his own house as colds and flues swept through the settlement, prescribing herbal teas and teaching Corinne and Catherine how to cook certain soups that would ease sore throats or coughs. Warren and Prudence decided to get a beehive, honey tea was excellent for colds, and Warren was once again on the ship with Faulkner, gone constantly to handle selling their yield and leaving Prudence alone for days at a time. She took up residence in Achilles' spare room again, nervous about her pregnancy and sending for Dr. Lyle every time she felt something.

"Don't worry, Prudence," he would say with a soft smile. "It's just your child kicking."

"What?" she asked surprised.

Achilles, watching from the door frame, made a face Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen before and turned from the room, going downstairs and staring at the empty place above the fireplace in the dining room. He remained there for hours, no one able to call his attention.

Myriam came from the forest with more pelts, mostly beaver and hare, but also three wolf pelts and several fox. Faulkner wasn't in port, and she was forced to wait for his arrival. Norris appeared from the mine as well, watching Myriam from afar and perpetually looking as if he were working up the nerve to speak to her. Connor was confused as to what was holding the man back, and one day as the wind was strong enough to create a rainstorm of tree leaves, he approached the nervous miner.

"Norris," he said softly, wincing when he startled the wiry man. Being silent sometimes had drawbacks.

"_Merde_," Norris said, clutching his heart. "You nearly _killed_ me!"

"I am sorry," Connor said softly looking at Myriam from where Norris was gazing, safely behind a tree. "I wanted to ask, what is the trouble you seem to have with talking to Myriam?"

"Trouble?" Norris asked, his tone briefly incredulous, before he inevitably turned back to the huntress. "Ah, it is not trouble, but it is most certainly a problem. A great problem."

"What is it?"

"I like her."

Connor was confused. "I like her as well. She is a skilled hunter and valued member of the community; she has provided most of the money necessary to build homes for everyone here, and she does it without second thought to her own needs. She is a dear friend to everyone here."

"_Non, non, mon ami,_ that is not what I mean," Norris said. "I _like_ her."

"Oh," Connor said, uncertain what else he was supposed to say. Then it all clicked in his head and his eyes widened. "Oh! Congratulations!"

"Ah, no, my friend," Norris said. "It is not the time for congratulations. My 'eart, it skips every time I see her, my mind freezes, and I can do nothing. I am 'opeless, unable to even _talk_ to her. I want to give her a gift, but I don't even know where to start. What would a strong woman like that like as a gift?"

Connor frowned at the problem, uncertain what a colonial woman would like, let alone what a colonial woman who did not follow social norms would like. Oiá:ner always knew the answers to these kinds of problems, but she was not here and he hurt at the thought that he might never be welcome at his home again. Failing her, he settled on the next best thing. "Let us call on Prudence. She may be of service."

The two of them went to the Davenport Homestead, Prudence in the study sewing clothing for her baby. Now in her fifth month, she was beginning to show, and Dr. Lyle had slowly pulled her back from the harder work on the farm, saying that for the first child it was best not to take any chances. She looked up, always particularly shy around white men, and looked in askance of Connor. "What can I do for you?" she asked softly, her voice low.

Connor, knowing her sensitivity, cut right to the chase. "Norris here is trying to," he paused, trying to think of the right word, "... court... a woman. What do-" he froze, uncertain how to frame the question, uncertain how to _not_ sound insensitive. "You-" He frowned, trying again. "Women, like... in terms of gifts?"

Realizing what this conversation was about, she looked at Norris like a new man, and her shyness melted away into a soft, understanding smile. A hand unconsciously touched her belly, and she leaned back in her chair, still smiling, and appreciating the moment. "She is a lucky woman, I imagine," she said quietly. "It is a rare man who will ask a woman her opinion, and already that makes you a fine catch for whoever she is. A nice bunch of wild flowers always brightens my day. Who is it you fancy?"

Norris was tongue-tied, and Connor tried to save him. "Best not say for now," he said quietly.

She smiled again. "Fair enough. Best ones are atop the bluff to the northwest. A bit tricky to get to but they grow large and healthy in the full sun. Dr. Lyle found them on one of his walks, he thinks there might be some medicinal properties in them. He gave me a bouquet to keep me company with Warren gone. He is gentle. So are you."

Satisfied that he had helped, Connor escorted Norris out and went back to tending to Prudence. Achilles was hidden in his room, unable to even look at Prudence without leaving either to his lair or to the dining room's empty space. Only when Warren returned a week later did Achilles appear again, his face faintly relieved. Connor tried to ask but was rebuffed, the best answer he got was simply, "Bad memories."

In the middle of October, not two weeks later, Norris was knocking on the manor door, pushing past Clipper and Stephane and making a beeline to Connor. "Bad news!" he said, aghast. "She did not like the flowers. She tossed them aside. What will I do now?"

"What's this all about?" Duncan asked, coming up from the root cellar. "What's got ye so in a twist?"

Norris, embarrassed that he had made his confession in the presence of another, said a long string of French that Connor did not understand and ran out of the house. Duncan looked to Connor in askance, and the young native had no idea whether he should break the miner's confidence or not. He spread his hands, helpless.

The next day Myriam came up to the manor a flush in her cheeks and a fire in her eyes.

"Was it your idea?" she demanded, shoving a confused Clipper aside and thrusting an accusatory finger at Connor. "Did you tell that miner that I was some fair maiden to be coddled and kept in a tower, sheltered from the world like some... some... some _woman_?"

Connor was utterly lost. "What are you talking about?"

"_Norris!_" she growled, her voice bouncing off the hall. "He tried to give me _flowers_! Like some princess in a tower, and said he wanted to declare his intentions. I'm no woman, Connor! I don't need any special treatment!"

"And I said no such thing," Connor replied, completely lost as to what had happened – or how he was even involved in any of it. "Norris expressed his affection for you, and I suggested he talk to you, but he is easily flustered and afraid to approach you. We went to Prudence for advice and she suggested the flowers. I am sorry this has so obviously displeased you."

Myriam was brought up short, completely poleaxed by Connor's words for reasons he still didn't understand. Wide eyes, she stared at him, utterly incredulous. "He..." she started, struggling to get the words out. "He fancies me?"

"... Yes?" He had no idea if that was the right answer or not.

And just like that she left the manor, a curious look on her face, muttering to herself. "He fancies me... There's a man out there that actually fancies me... But how...?"

And Connor had no idea what, if anything he was supposed to do.

Elsewhere, however, the settlement continued to grow. Ollie and Corrine finished their inn, and basic framing had gone up on Dr. Lyle's homestead. The doctor was constantly on the move, visiting Prudence daily, checking in on the Scottish children as well as their fathers, and talking with Faulkner whenever he was in port to ask for various remedies.

"It's rather remarkable," he said one day as he and Connor walked back from a small trip to the Vineyard. "For centuries medicine has been more chance than science. Men believed that things like sheep's urine was a cure for various ailments, and what worked once must work for all. But recently we doctors have decided to pool our resources, print our findings in medical journals." He lifted the thin book he had been reading on his ride to the homestead. "We're all learning from each other, discovering what works and what doesn't. And here, in the colonies, there's ample room to learn even more. The natives here didn't have sickness of any kind before the Europeans came, and I'd love to learn why. Are their herbs and plants here truly to marvelous, or is there a particular custom they did that helped to prevent disease? I would love to talk to some tribesmen, learn about their medicine, see if I can adapt it, study it, maybe even improve it if the Lord grants me the ability."

"Why did you not ask sooner?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "The Haudenosaunee would welcome such a visit, the _roiá:ner_ and _oiá:ner_ both would love to learn from you as well."

Dr. Lyle blinked, stopping in his tracks and looking at Ratonhnhaké:ton as if for the first time. "My God," he declared. "You _are_ native. You're so pale I thought... What a fool I've been! Connor, I'd be honored if you introduced me to your fellow tribesman. I want to learn from them."

And so, with a possible peace offering in tow, Ratonhnhaké:ton once more returned to his home in Kanatahséton, with a promise to Achilles that he absolutely return before the end of November – even if he had to drag Dr. Lyle kicking and screaming to do it. "And don't forget the turkeys!"

Kanen'tó:kon met him in the woods, and gladly welcomed his return, saying that the time away had quieted many angry voices, and that without the threat of their valley being bought that things looked to be calmer. Learning that Dr. Lyle was in fact a doctor made him an instant sensation in the village, many coming out as the middle aged man carefully examined all the children, explaining what he was doing and Ratonhnhaké:ton acting as translator. Two minor surgeries were performed, to the fascination of the _sachem_, and in exchange their entire medical lore was given to Dr. Lyle, the wonders of hooked agrimony, purple cone flower; a member of the False Face Society explained their carved wooden masks to scare away bad spirits, the puddings they made and the soups, acting out dreams to cure patients. Dr. Lyle took copious notes, determined to write it all down for later thought, research, or study as the case may be.

Everyone wished them well for the harvest, and Ratonhnhaké:ton very carefully thanked Kanen'tó:kon for allowing him to intrude again. His dear friend smiled, said that if doing so made their village even a little bit safer, then it was worth it.

On the way back Ratonhnhaké:ton held to his promise and had collected six turkeys. It was late in November, now, harvest was almost over. Achilles accepted the turkeys and said to gather the women, he was opening his kitchen.

That had _never_ happened before, and Ratonhnhaké:ton watched in curiosity as the women happily took up residence, Stephane as well, and set to work filling the entire home with wondrous smells of cooking. He looked to Achilles in askance, and the Old Man said, "You've been here for six years, and you've yet to be around here at the end of November, either visiting your home or out on a hunting trip or distracted by other things. But now you need to understand that, in spite of all the distrust your people and the Colonists have, there is one thing for which every European will be grateful: Plymouth."

What did a town south of Boston have to do with the end of November?

At Ratonhnhaké:ton's blank look, Achilles patiently explained. "When the first settlers landed in Plymouth, they had no idea how to use the land, nor how to survive a New England winter. The Patuxet shared the bounty of their harvest, and helped the first pilgrims to these lands survive. Since then, every year at harvest, colonists everywhere celebrate what the natives did in their generosity. Once a year they manage to forget that they slaughter your people in their greedy grasp for more land to exploit, and instead thank your people for what they have done. The day is called Thanksgiving in honor of that. And now, _you_ are at last here to witness the only kindness the colonists will afford you and your people."

The next day was a feast.

The turkeys had all been cooked, as had squash, beans, corn, potatoes, carrots, turnips, various stuffings, gravy, wine, bread, oat bread, corn bread, apple pies, berry pies; all were spread out on the dining room table. Oliver and Corinne were the servers, their years as innkeepers giving them experience, while Achilles quietly sat at the head of the table and listened to Dr. Lyle marvel at the discoveries he had made on his trip, Duncan nodding and following along while Lance's apprentice tried to make sweet with one of Diana's daughters. Godfrey and Terry were already deep into the wine, Lance not far behind, while Warren and Prudence quietly accepted their food and gazed lovingly at each other, both touching Prudence's swelling middle in bliss. Godfrey's children had managed to come home for a visit, and the table was filled to bursting with people.

Conversations happened everywhere, someone was always talking to someone else, talking about the harvest, the bounty, the happy expectations, the discoveries, the opportunities. Food changed hands, plates were cleaned, and everywhere there was a sense of gratitude for a successful year.

As their bellies filled, Achilles at last took fork and tapped his glass of wine, getting everyone's attention.

"I've been doing this for a few years now," he said, his voice for once not papery, not thin, but strong, powerful, a hint of what he must have sounded like in his prime bleeding through. "I've never been one for words, but there was one thought I've wanted to share for a time but have been unable to. Now that a certain beneficiary is here, it can be delivered."

He turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Connor," he said. "Yours are a people that are strong in ways that we colonists have yet to understand, let alone appreciate, but it is because of your people that any of us are even here to have this holiday. We thank you, Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka, and we convey our thanks to your people."

"Here here!" Terry said.

"Aye!"

"Amen!"

"God bless!"

After that was a long string of toasts, each settler saying something to or about Connor, thanking him for being brought here, for offering land so kindly and generously, for acting as the Hand of God and giving so many a second chance. The well-wishes were amazing, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know what to say, and he was left staring at his empty plate, uncertain what to say. After the final toast by Dr. Lyle, expressing gratitude over what had been learned from his people for medicine, the conversation renewed again, and Achilles leaned over. "Have you anything that you are thankful for?" he asked.

Realizing that was his cue, Ratonhnhaké:ton stood up awkwardly, uncertain what he could even say. Everyone looked at him expectantly, and he felt heat in his face as he tried to think of the right words.

"I have..." he swallowed, licking his lips and trying again. "I have been learning under Achilles for many years, but this is the first time..." he ran out of words, felt awkward and ineloquent compared to what everyone else said. He worried his hands, shifted his weight. "What I am most thankful for is Achilles," he said slowly. "He has taken the time to teach me your ways, and has been patient when I did not understand, and has helped me even when perhaps I did not deserve it. I would not be who I am if not for him. All the praise you have given me... it belongs to him."

He sat down, mortified, and hoped he did adequate. He risked glancing at Achilles, and saw that there was a smile on his face, unguarded and open for anyone to see. He caught Connor's eye, and nodded.

Connor felt heat in his face again, only this time it came from a very different place.

* * *

The next day it was business as normal; Achilles pulled Connor into his study and caught him up on current events. Sam Adams and his cousin John were back from Philadelphia, and Sam immediately got to work at the Massachusetts Provincial Congress – which was still meeting in spite of England and Governor Gage's declarations. Minutemen – men who could be called to arms at a minutes notice, were created in case things went from bad to worse, and frankly it was only a matter of time before "worse" happened. Town meetings were still being held – again in spite of General Gage, and the Committee of Correspondence was still in full swing. The Continental Congress had agreed to reconvene in May, to assess how the colonies were and if additional action needed to be taken. The ultimate decision the congress had made had been little more than writing a sternly worded letter to the king.

Supplies from other colonies were still streaming in to Boston; with the port closed the other twelve colonies had sent their own provisions to help the people who still lived in the city. More locally, Prudence's pregnancy was going well, though there was increasingly little work she was allowed to do. Lance's apprentice would finish in the next year leaving Godfrey's son to take up the position. Faulkner had been on several runs, mostly local, and had less money as a result, but with Boston closed he didn't want to go too far in case Achilles needed him for something specific.

As December moved on and the weather went from cold to freezing, the first snow wandered in halfway through the month, burying the interior of the state and clipping the coast. All of the assassins stayed inside, drinking either hot chocolate or coffee, the two most common replacements for the ongoing boycott on British tea. Clipper the Virginian was amazed to see the snow – had seen it often enough, but apparently that far south snow fell and melted in the span of a day; cold as it was in the north the snow stuck for weeks on end, even in the comparatively milder climate of the coast.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" Stephane asked.

"Ranging with my pa and brothers in Virginia country. My family's been surveyin' and prospectin' out there since my grand-pappy."

"And how did you end up here?"

"I'm the youngest of five. I was always going to be a runner-up with them so I set off alone to do my own business. Out west of Ohio's territory that no man of the Colonies' ever trodden. Figured I could find contracts out of New York. Had a good contract, and we were set to start in Boston. Then the port was closed, and the soldiers moved in. Cost me my first job."

"Are you a Son of Liberty?"

"Not really," Clipper replied. "My family's for the King. I just don't like seeing boys forced to go against their will is all. But I know that I want to be free, for all to be free. If that means I'm a Son of Liberty, I reckon I am."

After the snow the valley was blanketed in white. A new wave of colds washed over the settlement, and Dr. Lyle was soon grabbing Connor, the only healthy member of the valley, to help him on his rounds as he tried to help everyone through their sicknesses. When he wasn't helping the new doctor, he was aiding a sick Oliver butchering cattle or pigs for cooking, cutting firewood to a bed-ridden Lance, or chasing the kids before they played any more in the snow. Warren rode on a caravan to Boston to sell their extra crop – he had impressed on both Connor and Dr. Lyle to keep an eye on his beloved and very pregnant wife, afraid that being gone for more than a few seconds would somehow cause another miscarriage. Lyle had restricted her to light work only, making Connor a nearly constant presence on the farm while Warren was away.

By the end of December he was feeling slightly put out, he had his _own_ training to focus on and he felt like there wasn't enough time in the day to get everything done. He was wondering if he could sneak away on a trip with Faulkner, where his schedule was much more structured, when Prudence, holding her swollen belly, called him over. He _had_ been on his way to ask for some of their dried herbs, but she had a look in her eye and he knew he was about to do a favor.

"Oh Connor," she said, a thick winter shawl over her shoulders and her breath coming out in thick clouds. "Do you have a moment?"

"What is it Prudence?"

"I feel silly bothering you with this but Warren isn't back yet. Could you round up the livestock for me? I've tried but this baby in my belly takes the wind out of me." She smiled, an expression permanently on her face since the pregnancy had been announced.

The young native couldn't say no to that smile. "Of course," he said. "I will see to it."

Then began the most irritating job he had on the farm. A dozen pigs, used to clean up the harvested field ate everything in sight, to be herded back to their pens, and deeply resented returning. Small, agile, and exceedingly hard to grab, the animals refused to listen to calm, rational direction. "Hip hip! This way!" never managed to get them where they were supposed to be. They squealed incessantly, ran from any perception of motion – often in the exact opposite direction – and otherwise made life as difficult as possible. Diving for the pig always ended in being covered in snow and the pigs just eeking away. Inevitably Connor's polite corralling turned into an indignant, "The things I do for this place..." The December chill most certainly did not help, and by the time he was done his fingers were numb, he was covered in snow, and miserable.

Prudence was sitting in a chair, holding her belly and watching his harried work. A hot cup of chocolate had been made while he was working, and she offered it to him to warm him up. He sipped slowly, following her inside where there was a fire and sitting by the hearth.

"Thank you Connor," Prudence said, still holding her middle. "I could never have managed that."

"It was my pleasure," Connor said, hoping the tightness in his voice wasn't as obvious as he thought it was. "Are you well?"

"I am," she said, her voice soft and her omnipresent smile on her face. "And I couldn't be happier. Warren and I have been waiting a long time for this. And if truth be told, we could not dream of a better place to raise our family. Oh!" She startled, straightening in her chair. "The baby is quite strong, that much is certain. Kicks like a mule."

Connor blinked, surprised. "The baby is kicking?"

"Yes," she said, adjusting herself in the chair. "Here, see for yourself."

Connor watched as Prudence – shy, nervous Prudence – took his hand and slowly guided it to her belly. It was such an intimate gesture, and he hadn't thought she thought so well of him, trusted him so much to allow the touch. He held himself very still, afraid of startling her in some way, and was so focused on not upsetting her he didn't pay attention when the baby kicked. There was a sudden thrust against his palm, and he startled, stiffening, and his eyes snapped to her abdomen, her hand gently holding his to the baby.

It kicked again, a strong push, and Connor realized that there was a _life_ there, an unborn child that would enter the world and see its wonders. Anything was possible with that life, it could be a girl or a boy, could be a leader or a follower, a farmer or a smith, the possibilities were endless. The overwhelming sense of it all struck Connor, and he was amazed that all of these things could be contained in a mother's body – let alone a gentle and shy woman like Prudence. How could she endure it? Living with all the ways this could go wrong? Go right? How did his own _ista_? Did she lie awake at night and worry, or did she smile for days on end like Prudence? He looked up, and for a moment Prudence looked just like his _ista_, and his chest hurt with feeling.

He pulled away, uncertain he could feel another kick without... with his feelings churning as they suddenly were.

"It is amazing," he said softly, uncertain what else to say.

"It is," Prudence said, holding her abdomen. "A child is a miracle to anyone. We don't cherish children enough in this world. I envy women like Catherine and Diana, who can have one a year as often as they want. I don't care if I have no other children, I will have this one, and I will cherish it for as long as I live. That reminds me," she added, getting up and waddling across the room and to the hall. "I'll be but a moment," she said.

Five minutes later she was back, a parcel in her hands.

"An early Christmas present," she said.

"Christmas?"

She stared at him, before giving a small gasp. "I keep forgetting you are a native," she said. "Christmas is a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ, the savior of humanity. We celebrate it by exchanging gifts. It is because of you that Dr. Lyle is here, and that we even have a home here. When we all gave thanks at Thanksgiving I realized just how much of this traces back to you. I wanted to express my gratitude. Here."

Connor took the parcel, humbled by her attitude, and glanced at the present, silently asking if he could open it. She nodded, and he gently unfolded the paper, unwrapping it to find a book, its pages empty. He looked up, confused.

"A journal," she said gently. "You are so literate I thought you might want one. You write the events of the day, put your thoughts to paper, observations and opinions."

"... Thank you," Connor said, nearly speechless. "I will cherish it."

Prudence smiled. "You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best kind of filler chapter. This one's a favorite because some of the best memories are in this chapter. We have the introduction of Clipper and his fun-to-write mountain-speak, we have our all-time favorite homesteader Dr. Lyle, we have OUR version of Myriam and Norris' courtship, we have Warren and Prudence, we have Thanksgiving AND Christmas... There's a lot stuffed into this chapter and proofing it is always a little self-gratifying.
> 
> First things first: because of the heavy Puritan influence of the colonies, Christmas was not the bombastic hyper-commercialized start-in-August spectacular it is in modern day. In point of fact, our history beta mentioned several times that Colonists at the time practically didn't celebrate at all it was so muted. Also, Thanksgiving existed long before the US of A was a thing, and we deliberately kept Connor out of the house in November because we wanted a more full homestead before playing this particular card. Connor gets embarrassed in a kind of beautiful way - more than even Altair - and we can't help but smile every time we do it to him, poor guy.
> 
> Dr. Lyle as noted earlier is our favorite homesteader. He absolutely had to be an abolitionist if he treated Warren and Prudence well enough for them to reccommend him, and once we realized that we were able to drop the not-subtle hint about Achilles' past, that Connor had no idea about. Achilles is very closed-lipped about the Seven Years War - we did that deliberately in part because we weren't sure if we could play Rouge in time before finishing writing this, but also because Achilles as a character is so beaten down that he wouldn't talk about the things that hurt him most - like Prudence's pregnancy bringing up memories of Abigail and little Connor even while his love for his family makes him look after Prudence in spite of the pain. We also get a nod to history of the Order with all the novices (and now even Connor is using the word! whee!) and that Achilles is equal-opportunity when it comes to shutting down.
> 
> Also, Myriam and Norris. No matter how adorable Norris is, the two of us always found it a little grating that he and Connor go behind Myriam's back to get the gifts, that it's all about Norris winning her affections through gifts rather than earning them. It's the reason we hate romances in general (which totally breaks some kind of girl law, I think, but there you go). It was much funnier for us to instead have Myriam realize someone has a crush on her when she hasn't considered herself marriage material for years and then go and persue him. More on that later.
> 
> Oliver and Corrine get introduced, too, but they only have that one memory to go by and our cast is already giant enough and only going to get bigger. We did give them the distinct attribute of being affectionate in public - another Puritan no-no - and openly do something scandalous like hug or hold hands. Colonists of ye olden times would freak out in today's world. :P And of course we have the hearding pigs and the (infamous?) "The things I do for this place," which is one of the most meta lines in the game and cracked us up when we first heard it.
> 
> I'm afraid of jinxing it but this is probably the most positive chapter we've had. Er, that usually means bad things are coming...
> 
> Next chapter: A warning to the soldier, the civilian, the martyr, the victim, this is WAR.


	13. Lexington and Concord

Prudence's gift left Connor thinking. Achilles didn't really celebrate this... Christmas. None of the settlers did really, not like the Haudenosaunee did with their festivals, but Achilles didn't even seem to acknowledge the holiday even existed. That made sense, as Achilles wasn't particularly religious, and tended to scoff at religious practice. Oh he explained it, where it came from, what ceremonies represented, but there was an underlying... disdain for religion. As if it were nothing more than another cage for people to be held in, or chains to bind a person's thinking. Connor, himself, did not agree. He had been visited by the Sky Goddess, Iottsitíson and from the stories he'd heard of Ezio, that great Mentor had also had visitations. Duncan, perhaps, had summed up Connor's thoughts best. The _how_ of religion didn't matter. As long as one listened.

But Prudence's show of Christmas... of exchanging gifts, it niggled in the back of Connor's mind.

He did not agree with the concept. Of some savior who brought all to heaven. That was for the Faceless One to decide. But the giving of gifts...

Connor had been making and collecting _wampum_ beads since he arrived. Originally, he'd planned to make _wampum_ to commemorate the deaths of the Stone Coats he hunted. He was already making one for the death of Warraghiyagey, William Johnson. But now he looked to the beads again. Stephane, Duncan, Clipper, each had faced and defeated their own Stone Coats. They were _hirokoa_, Assassins. And that deserved something. So Connor locked himself in his room, weaving beads together, thinking of what pattern would best represent each Assassin, and their trial against their own _atenenyarhu_. Achilles, however, needed something different. He was _roiá:ner_. The chief of the Assassins. As strong and powerful as the bald eagle that rested in the Old Man's room.

It did not take much to find willow, nor proper sinew. The feathers were harder to find, as he needed to find them from just the right birds and he wouldn't have them just lying around from his hunts. He took to the woods for almost two weeks, before returning with the feathers he wanted, and with the unexpected bonus of other items that would be useful.

He first delivered the _wampum_. One frigid night, after Achilles had taken to bed with aching joints, Connor sat in the parlor of the home beside the manor, meant for any visiting Assassins, where Achilles had finally thrown everyone once Connor had brought Clipper in to the fold. While Connor still stayed in the manor proper, the rest were at the adjacent house so that the Old Man "could maintain at least _some_ peace and quiet." The fire was crackling warmly, and they spoke of the grueling training that the day had offered. Clipper was complaining about all the reading that Achilles was having him do, Duncan was discussing with Stephane the finer points of shooting, and Connor was offering tidbits from how his own training had gone.

There finally came a lull and Connor stood. "I have something for you," he said softly, and disappeared out to the cold to go to his room and get the _wampum_ and come back.

"Ye have us guessin'," Duncan smiled. "We can't think o' a reason for this, let alone what this could possibly be."

Connor gave a small smile, before sitting on the floor.

"Achilles would lay out all the symbols and references of my people to explain this," he said softly. "But to understand these are so integral to being of my people, it is difficult for me to explain it fully. You white men have ownership over everything. My people do not. Everything belongs to all. But these," he laid out the _wampum_ gently, "are never the same and are created for a specific purpose. These belts are given to those who speak hard truths, they are credentials of those who are leaders that make the hard decisions. They are treaties of peace, written for all to see. As Assassins, we speak hard truths, we make hard decisions, and we bring peace as we remove threats to freedom."

He handed out each. Duncan's _wampum_ bore a beaded owl for his wisdom, Stephane's had a growling bear, for his passion, and Clipper's a goose, for his travels.

"I am not certain we can offer enough thanks," Stephane said softly. "_Merci beaucoup. Merci pour vos pensées_."

Duncan simply held his to the light, tracing over the owl.

Clipper was perhaps the most wide-eyed. "No redskin I ever met never thought so highly of me."

Duncan reached over and cuffed Clipper on the head. "_Natives_, lad. All that readin' and ye still lack any tact."

Connor merely smiled. "Welcome to being _hirokoa_. Assassins."

Achilles looked at what was given to him at breakfast the following morning.

"What is this?"

The "this" was willow wound into a circle, sinew tied within to form a pattern, with eagle feathers and bear claws adorning it.

"It is a dreamcatcher," Connor replied softly. "They come from the Ojibwe, but many of my clan have found them useful. They catch the negative dreams within the winding pattern so that they may not affect you. After re-enacting the dream, you have then preformed the negative so that it will not come to pass."

Achilles stared at it for some time.

"My dreams are of the past and cannot be changed," he grumbled, but the dreamcatcher hung above his bed regardless.

Connor simply nodded.

It was January when Connor noticed something. He had something of a shadow following him. Clipper, it seemed, was always trailing after him, attempting to learn the same routines that Connor practiced, tried to keep pace with Connor's morning run, and, when not being browbeat by Achilles on his attempts to learn how to read and write, was simply conversing with Connor.

Connor did not mind. Not really. Clipper was the youngest of many brothers, and it seemed he looked to Connor as the big brother as it was the only way for Clipper to relate to him. It was the same back at the village, where younger children trailed after older siblings. But Connor was starting to think that perhaps Clipper's view of him wasn't for the best. He went to the Old Man with these concerns.

"It's the biggest problem that young Virginian must overcome," Achilles explained. "All he's ever known was his mountain and his family. Everything he sees goes through that lens. If he sees something that doesn't fit within that narrow experience, he's stumped. And he doesn't even realize how he's defining everything by how he lived."

"But the world does not live the same way as his family on that mountain," Connor raised a brow. "Just by my coming here I saw that the white man's way was different than my people's. Growing up I saw that different tribes were unlike my own. Even seeing how people in the city live compared to the homestead is different. They can not compare."

Achilles nodded. "Because you're smarter than Clipper. He needs his understanding shaken up and nothing I've had him read seems to do it."

"Then what he needs is experience."

The Old Man gave a dry chuckle. "You'd think leaving his home and bartering in a city to become a guide would have broken through that thick skull already."

They both sat quietly, thinking of how to broaden Clipper's view of the world.

"Perhaps..."

"Yes, Connor?"

"Perhaps, it is the land. I do not know what it is like in Virginia, but they have mountains as we do. They have farmland as we do. Perhaps he cannot see the difference because he sees things as the same?"

"Oh, I think we're on to something now," Achilles gave an anticipatory chuckle. "I think we need to talk to Mr. Faulkner."

And so, one frigidly cold morning in January, Achilles and Connor sent a very terrified Clipper out to sea with Bobby Faulkner. Achilles wasn't quite laughing the whole walk back to the manner.

January continued to be quiet and the cold continued to make Achilles cranky as his injured leg flared. Lyle was often up at the house, but couldn't offer much more than taking towels heated by the fire and wrapping the leg so that the cold couldn't reach it for at least a little while, since Achilles refused _any_ form of painkiller. Connor had taken over training Stephane and Duncan in the physical aspects of being an Assassin and had them working hard every morning before Achilles spent the afternoon with them on history and strategy.

February finally offered a reprieve as the bitterly frigid days merely became cold and Achilles finally started limping around. One of the things Achilles insisted on was having Prudence visit, though he was rarely around when she was there. Her pregnancy was in the final stages, her belly round and full with child. She had a perpetual smile on her face, her eyes always aglitter with happiness.

Connor could not help but wonder.

Did his own mother smile like that?

He knew that his mother was alone, his father having betrayed her and abandoning her before she had known of her pregnancy, but what did she feel as she approached his birth? Was she happy to have him? Or was he a reminder of the man that had betrayed them? Did she struggle with the pregnancy, as Prudence did, or was it easier for her? Despite the numerous births in the village as he grew up, he had never truly paid much attention to the process of giving life and now he couldn't help but be curious. The Freemans had tried so hard and for so long. Had his mother lived, would she have chosen to have more children? Would Connor have had a little brother or sister? Or had she renounced having any other children?

Prudence was sitting in a chair by the fire in the dining room, looking tired. Stephane was bustling in the kitchen, and Duncan was out in the woods, practicing his climbing. Achilles had retired to his room when Prudence had arrived, leaving Connor to play host.

"It's good practice."

Though Connor doubted that was the real reason.

Prudence seemed to enjoy the time up at the manor though. She marveled that it was all the property of a black man and how elegant it was. It gave her hope, even as she was finally starting to open up to the other members of the homestead.

"Diana and Catherine have been so kind," Prudence said. "Once they learned I was pregnant they've been over so much to offer advice and help me prepare."

"It is good to see you finally connect with them."

Prudence looked away, embarrassed. "I can't say that I was proud to avoid them... It was just... difficult."

"That is understandable," Connor replied, noting that Prudence was shifting yet again in the chair. "Are you well?"

"Oh I am fine," she replied, shifting again. "I should be delivering soon and I keep imagining what it will be like." She moved in her chair again. "I've been imagining the feeling for weeks now. And it seems my body might be imagining as well."

Connor blinked. "You mean you are feeling..." he paused, trying to remember the word the women of his village used and how to translate it... "er... the waves?"

Prudence shook her head, still smiling. "No, I doubt it. I've had 'waves' as you call it for weeks now and yet I am still pregnant. I can't be actually giving..." she paused, scrunching up her face. "Oh..." she leaned forward, a hand coming to rub her round belly. "Oh!" she gasped. "The baby _is_ coming!"

Connor blinked, blood draining from his face. "Um... _what_?"

"Connor!" Prudence was smiling. "The baby is coming! Thank the Lord!"

Connor stood, anxiety filling him. "We... we need to get you to Dr. White!"

Prudence gasped. "No," she hissed. "I can't move! Bring him here!"

Stephane had come from the kitchen, also looking pale. "_Merde! Maintenant?!_"

Achilles stepped into the hall. "Stephane, help me bring her to my room. She'll be more comfortable there. Connor, you'd best be going."

Connor was still frozen solid, looking on as Prudence's face twisted as another wave hit her.

"_Connor!_"

"Ahhh... yes!"

Connor raced out of the manor to the stables and didn't even bother pulling out the saddle and tack. Did his mother suffer so? There had been births at the village, but Connor had never seen them. There was always something else to do. Was birthing always so difficult? Connor shook his head as he heeled the flank of his black mare and raced down the hill.

Lyle's home was unfinished, the early snow slowing construction to a snail's pace. Still, Connor rode in, looking around in case the doctor was there. "Doctor White!" he shouted as he trotted around the circumference of the home.

No. Then he'd be at the inn, or Oliver would know where he was. He kicked the mare again and took off, going further down the hill to the Mile's End.

"Doctor White!" he shouted, leaping off the horse and bursting into the tavern. "Doctor White!"

Everyone was surprised, staring at his sudden appearance. He scanned the crowds, but did not see the good doctor.

"Mr. Miles! Where is Doctor White?"

Oliver blinked, completely flatfooted. "Ah, he's down at the harbor. Captain Faulkner's come in and many of his crew are down with some sort of illness."

That was in the opposite direction!

Growling in frustration, Connor turned and leapt easily back onto the horse and took off. He rode by the manor and around back before heading downhill to the dock. Would he make it in time?

"Doctor White!" he bellowed. "Doctor White!"

Lyle's stepped to the rails of the _Aquila_. "Connor!" he called. "What's wrong?"

"Come with me. Now!" Connor shouted back. "Prudence is in labor at the manor!"

"The manor? What in bloody hell is she doing up there?!" Lyle grabbed a bottle of rum from one of the sailors, doused his hands in it, and disappeared below deck for his bag. Connor's mare pranced nervously, his anxiety showing in her unsteady step. It felt like hours before Lyle rushed up to the deck and down the gangplank to where his buggy was.

"How long?" Lyle demanded.

"I am uncertain," Connor replied as they hurried off up the hill. "She had come over and was uncomfortable in the chair. Then she started to grunt and her face twisted..."

"_When_, Connor, I need to know when this started," Lyle interrupted, though not harshly.

"A little after three o'clock."

"Right," Lyle nodded. "We'll still have several hours before the baby is born, but I'm worried with her age and this being her first pregnancy." He flicked his reins harder. "Get Warren! I'll tend to Prudence."

"_Now_?!"

Lyle glared at Connor. "_Yes_! If he wants to see the birth of his child, then _yes_, _now_! Now tell me how she seemed to you?"

"In great pain," Connor repeated. "She could not move herself."

"Was she pale? Was there blood?"

"I saw no blood, but she did seem pale when she arrived."

Lyle swore, something Connor had never expected. "Her water probably broke and she didn't know it! Dammit all!"

Connor didn't know what breaking water had to do with birth, but he refrained from asking as his heart was already pounding in his ears.

Lyle kept asking questions of Connor, but sadly, Connor didn't know how to answer. He had never witnessed a birth before and didn't know what was natural or normal. He described what he'd seen to the best of his ability, which Lyle seemed to appreciate ("You have a sharp eye.") but didn't seem to answer what Lyle really needed to know.

The sun was setting over the western mountains when they came to the drive up to the manor and split ways. Lyle headed up to the house while Connor kicked his black mare again and headed back the way he had gone hours earlier. He couldn't believe he hadn't gone for Warren first. How stupid of him!

"Warren!" he shouted as he rode up to the farm. "Warren! Are you here!?"

The front door opened and Warren ran out. "Over here! What's the trouble? Where is she? Prudence has not returned!"

"At the manor! She is giving birth!"

Warren shouted something in French and then ran to the barn. "We must hurry!"

Connor rode in front of Warren and lowered his arm. "We can ride double! Come!"

Warren vaulted up, the barebacked mare not appreciating the extra weight, but Connor had enough control to prevent bucking. "Hiya!" He once again kicked the poor mare in the flanks and they took off, back yet again, the way that Connor had come.

"Prudence!" Warren shouted as they road up. He stumbled off the horse and ran into the house. Connor brought the mare to the stables and hesitated.

He had no business being in there for the birth. It was not his place. The Freemans were not his family and Prudence was very shy. The anxiety was still raging in his ears and pounding at his heart and locking his jaw. He had too much energy. He could do _nothing_ like this. So Connor took a heavy breath and saw to the mare. She had done a lot of riding and barebacked no less. So he pulled out a brush, dragged over some feed, and set to taking care of her after all her hard work.

He stayed in the stable for hours, tending to the mare and the nag, cleaning out stalls and keeping himself busy in the growing dark. He was hungry, having missed supper, yet he could not bring himself to enter the manor, knowing that Prudence was struggling with giving birth. Both she had Warren had been struggling for _years_ just to have a child. He could not interrupt such a private moment.

He was sitting in the darkness, having run out of things to do, when Stephane came out with a small basket of food.

"You have not eaten, _non_?"

"My thanks."

Stephane let out a low chuckle. "This reminds me of the birth of _ma petite princesse_," he said softly. "Most perfect, beautiful baby girl I'd ever seen."

Connor blinked. "I did not know you had a family."

Stephane scoffed. "My wife, she died in childbirth. All I had was _ma petite princesse_." Stephane pulled off his scarf and rubbed at his hair. "She died when she was only four months old."

Connor looked down. "I am sorry."

The cook shrugged. "I doubt there was much I could do. It is why I don't care for the British taking what little I have left."

Nodding in the dark, Connor ate his food.

Achilles came out soon after. "You can stop hiding," he said softly. "In fact, the Freemans want to see you, Connor."

Blinking, Connor stumbled forward, the cold having made his joints stiff, and headed inside. Achilles stayed with Stephane, talking to him quietly.

Finding them back in Achilles's room, Connor softly knocked on the doorframe. Prudence was sweaty and tired, but she was holding a small bundle of white cloth in her arms and still smiling brightly. Warren was sitting beside her, arm around her shoulder and cooing softly. Lyle, also looking tired, was getting bloodied towels and sheets collected.

"Connor! Come meet our son!" Warren beamed.

"Is all well?" Connor asked softly, stepping into the room and staying near the door, not wanting to intrude despite being invited.

Lyle looked over and gave a tired, wan smile. "Yes, mother and child are well. You should have heard the set of lungs on him when he came out."

Him. A son. The Freemans had a son, one who would grow up never knowing slavery. Connor smiled.

"Congratulations."

Lyle crouched over a bucket of water and started rinsing his hands. "Yes, many congratulations. It may have taken ten long years, but I think it was worth it in the end."

"Oh yes," Warren said, his smile miraculously getting wider. "It is well worth it to have a son such as this."

"Come, Connor, have a look," Prudence gestured, eager to show off her son like any mother.

"Have you chosen a name?" Connor asked softly, stepping to the bed and looking at the small crunched up face the color of fresh turned earth.

Both Warren and Prudence looked at each other and smiled brightly.

"You have done so much for us," Prudence said softly, looking adoringly at the newborn in her arms. "You saved us, brought us to a safe haven, where we are accepted as who we are. It is only fitting..."

"We named him after you," Warren said, leaning over and brushing his massive hand over the tiny head. "He is Hunter, and he is strong and determined as you."

Connor didn't know what to say. He was honored and humbled, uncertain how to receive such praise. "I do what I must as any would..." he muttered. "I deserve no such esteem."

But the Freemans and Lyle were all smiling at him.

"I think we'd best be the judge of that," Lyle said softly, shaking out his wet hands. "I agree with Warren and Prudence, that you've done much for everyone here. Of course we'll hold you in high regard because of that."

Connor felt his cheeks heat and looked away. "...As you wish..." he mumbled, uncomfortable.

"So we wish it," Warren said.

All of the Freemans stayed at the manor as mother and child rested after the ordeal of childbirth. Warren still tended the farm, but was always back at the manor in time to tend to Prudence's every need if he could. Achilles looked over them with a wistful air, and pitched in as well in his grumbling way. Lyle stopped by every evening to ensure that both Hunter and Prudence were getting stronger, and Stephane looked on with longing from the kitchen before disappearing to other places in the property to be with his memories. Duncan also helped where he could, but spent most of his time talking to Stephane and helping his fellow Assassin.

Something Connor hadn't quite realized when he'd been on his mad dash to get Lyle was that Faulkner was back and with him, Clipper. The Virginian had stayed in one of the shacks at the shore, seasickness having put him down quite hard with a fever which Lyle was treating. The following week Connor had walked down to collect the young Assassin and found him feeling much better.

"I think I prefer mountains," Clipper said weakly as he hefted his pack.

"But it was different," Connor replied.

"Sure was."

Connor nodded. "What did you think of the voyage?"

"They're all crazy!" Clipper almost shouted. "If Cap'n Faulkner gave an order, you had to do it no matter what! I ain't even part of no crew and I had to obey instantly! There weren't nothing around us as far as the eye could see! How's anyone to know where they are?"

Connor chuckled. Clipper, it seemed, had certainly gotten a different experience of the world. Perhaps now he wouldn't filter everything through what it was like on the mountains back home.

Duncan and Stephane were both welcoming, and with the Freemans having returned to their home, life returned to training.

* * *

April dawned, still cold and cool, but the snow was finally melting, March having eaten most of it, and the few patches of white stubbornly left were shrinking every day. This left the roads a quagmire of muck and mud and early blooming flowers were starting, slowly, to sprout. The Freemans were happily starting to plow through the mud and with the better weather, work was picking up for Lyle's house and some amenities for the inn. Norris was regularly sending shipments of granite from his mines and Myriam had come in with some of her winter catches to give to Faulkner to sell. Duncan and Stephane and Clipper were still training, and Clipper was _finally_ showing signs of taking the lessons Achilles gave and looking at them from a different eye than back on his mountain in Virginia.

But Connor was feeling anxious again. He'd just had his birthday and was now nineteen. _Nineteen_. He had been here for _six years_ and he was still no closer to killing Charles Lee. He was aware that he still had much to learn and was not ready to face a man with decades of experience, but he had been at this for _years_ and the only progress was the death of William Johnson, Warraghiyagey, and the cost of that and the regrets he felt were still weighing him down.

It was with such glum feelings that he retreated to the basement, where the portraits hung, with his scribbles across Johnson's as he tried to piece together what the Templars were after. They had wanted land, but _why_? Not to protect it, but to control and harvest it till it was empty. But how was that part of his father's plan, what was the purpose? What was the further goal? Were they to make their own kingdom here?

He sighed as Achilles hobbled up behind him.

"I still worry," he said softly. "Only one down and so many to go. And still their plans are unclear."

"Best put it aside for now," Achilles said. "It seems we have company."

They walked up the stairs and to the front door.

"What is it?" Connor asked, opening the door.

"Letter for you, sir," a courier replied.

Achilles took it and started to read it as Stephane stepped out from the kitchen and Clipper and Duncan came down from upstairs. The courier waited, clearly having been told to wait for a response.

"Ah," Achilles finished reading and skimmed it again. "A request for aid from Paul Revere. Seems the Redcoats are up to something in Boston." He looked to Connor with a twinkle in his eye. "Guess you made an impression on the Sons of Liberty."

Connor winced, remembering his time at the dumping of the tea in Boston, and how much time he'd spent with Paul Revere and the Sons of Liberty explaining the bits and pieces of his culture. He shook his head. "They mistake me for one of their own," he said softly, and turned to the courier. "Please tell Mr. Revere he has my sympathies, but I cannot help at present." He turned back to the Old Man. "We still must find another," he gestured to the basement, indicating the Templars.

The Old Man's eyes twinkled again. "You might wish to reconsider. John Pitcairn is mentioned by name."

Connor's eyes narrowed and he heard his eagle screech as his focus came solely to the letter and the information contained therein.

"Where am I to go?" he asked, his voice lower and more deadly.

"Mr. Revere's house in Boston," the courier replied with a smile. "If you'd like I can..."

But Connor had shut the door and pounded up the stairs to start packing. Soon everyone was at his door. Achilles glared at him, with narrowed eyes. "Are you going to go in blind again, or do you actually _have_ a plan this time?"

His anxiety bubbled at the reminder of how terrible the killing of Warraghiyagey went. "I will not go alone," he replied. "Stephane and Duncan both know Boston well and will be assets. Clipper still has much training ahead of him before he can handle large groups of enemies. With three of us, we can make a proper plan once we assess the situation. I will use caution and stealth instead of brash directness. It is a lesson I have learned."

"Well, that's an improvement," Achilles muttered and turned to the others. "You heard him. Best get packing."

"Are ye sure about this?" Duncan asked quietly. "Boston's crawlin' with Regulars, the warships block the harbor, and ye're after just _one_ officer in a sea o' Redcoats."

Connor nodded. "It is why we must go. We must assess the situation. Now we are blind and we need more information."

Duncan nodded.

They were packed and ready within the hour. They had to take a wagon, as they didn't have enough horses for everyone, and the two day ride was tense. They all talked about what they could possibly be walking in to and what they could face, what sort of challenges would await them and plan for different happenings. They all agreed the best option would be to get Pitcairn out of Boston, but they could not figure out _how_. They stopped in Charlestown, and found militiamen who had boats ready for smuggling anyone in or out of Boston. Thus, that night, the three of them snuck into the city.

Built in 1680, Paul Revere's home was one of the oldest in Boston and was located on the former site of the Second Church of Boston's parsonage, after the Great Fire of 1676 burned it down. An L-shaped home with heavy framing posts and overhead beams, there was a massive chimney adjoining the lobby entrance. Frankly, Connor and the other Assassins were surprised that Revere was even meeting here. It was well known that he didn't actually stay here, as, just across the square, was where _many_ of the British officers were staying. Including Pitcairn.

Connor narrowed his eyes at the home, but shook his head. Too many Redcoats around, even with Stephan and Duncan at his side. He needed more information.

But meet at the house they did. The front of the house was kept dark and with heavy curtains drawn against both the cold and prying eyes. Any candles were only allowed in the back of the home and not even any fires were going, ensuring everyone thought the home was abandoned by the famous Son of Liberty. More heavy curtains were drawn to prevent any light from peaking out as Connor and his fellow Assassins were brought into a room barely lit with only two candles.

Paul Revere was pouring coffee, the only warmth to be had as everyone still had thick coats and gloves on, with three other men. One was Joseph Warren, another well-known Son of Liberty, even more so than Paul Revere. Joseph Warren was of renown similar to Sam Adams in his protests and petitions against England. However, unlike Sam Adams and John Hancock, Warren had decided to stay in Boston, despite how the British watched every single move he made.

The four were in deep discussion, talking of how the Redcoats had been acting strangely all day, not going to taverns or lording their power, and how odd that the routine had been broken. Something was clearly to happen.

"Ah, Connor!" Revere greeted, putting a hand to Connor's shoulder. Connor shrugged it off, not liking being touched. "What a relief! You came! And with friends!" He awkwardly gestured to the men Connor did not know. "Allow me to introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman. I believe you already know Joseph Warren."

Connor ignored them and narrowed his eyes to Revere. "Your letter said John Pitcairn was here, yet his home across the street is well guarded and empty." That much Connor could tell thanks to his Eagle.

"Aye," Revere nodded, confused at Connor's focus on one Englishman. Duncan and Stephane stayed quietly behind them, supporting Connor. They had all agreed to not be dragged into the brewing war, that their own war with the Templars was challenging enough.

"Pitcairn's readying an assault," Revere continued. "He'll be leaving Boston this very night."

Connor glanced to his fellow Assassins. That was what they had hoped for.

"His first stop will be Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter. But that's just a bonus. Their real target is Concord, where we've been collecting arms at Colonel Barrett's farm. We've got two canon there, gunpowder, shot. They hope to destroy our weapons and supplies." Revere stepped forward, pleading. "You _must_ help us!"

Connor narrowed his eyes. "Only tell me where to find Pitcairn and I will put a stop to this."

Warren shook his head. "He has hundreds of men, almost a thousand, under his command. You cannot hope to match him by yourself. Just as he readies his men to leave Boston _unseen_ by us, we have militia across the countryside, awaiting orders to take up arms at a minutes notice, to fight back."

"Then you must call upon them," Connor said evenly.

"Indeed!" Revere said eagerly, putting his hand to Connor's shoulder again.

Connor glared at the offending limb and Revere immediately withdrew it.

Warren sat forward, rubbing his hands together against the chill. "We plan to. Paul here is going to cross to Charlestown and ride from there." Warren glanced to Revere. "I understand your mount, Brown Beauty, is waiting for you."

Revere smiled. "Best horse I've ever ridden."

"William here will slip through Boston Neck and go over land. That way, at least one of you will be able to get Sam and John _out_ of there and warn Concord."

Newman sipped his coffee. "And what do you need me for?"

Revere stepped forward eagerly. "That's my idea! We don't know if the British are going by the Neck, or if they'll cross the bay like I will. So we need you to light lanterns at Christ Church. One lantern if they come by land, two if by water."

Newman nodded. "I'd best be going."

Connor, however, was thinking fast. "Wait." This was dangerous. Single riders? A man sneaking up a church's bell tower? "Duncan will protect Mr. Newman. Stephane, you ride with Mr. Dawes." Connor held back a grimace, "I shall ride with Mr. Revere. That way, if one of us gets any sort of opportunity, we take it."

Warren and the Sons of Liberty looked confused, but Duncan and Stephan both nodded somberly. "We'll take care o' it, lad."

"_Bien sûr._"

They all parted ways.

Ferrymen were waiting by the water and, as they had for the Assassins, they silently slipped across to Charlestown. Militiamen were there, anxiously staring across the harbor, and it didn't take long for Revere to find his Brown Beauty and get saddled. Connor simply went to where their horse and cart was and unhooked the black mare. He may not have a saddle, _again_, but this way he wouldn't have to ride double. The last time he'd done that with Warren was distinctly uncomfortable.

"Are you ready my friend?" Revere asked quietly, both looking out across the black water to the dark city of Boston under the moonlight. Revere reached over and grasped Connor's arm, "Are you _ready_?" he asked in excitement before Connor had had enough, and quickly grasped the hand, squeezing and twisting it almost to breaking.

"I am ready. I am prepared for anything." He looked to the squirming silversmith. "Are you?"

"I am!" he gasped, and Connor let go.

Within moments, above Boston's skyline, in the dark shadow of the Old North Church, a single light shone.

"A moment..."

And, a few minutes later, another joined it.

"They're coming this way," Revere said excitedly, yet still somber. "They'll be chasing our heels. Let's get going, _hiya_!"

Both took off into the night.

It was a long and grueling ride. As was typical for mid-April, the nights were cold enough to refreeze everything that had melted during the day, if any snow was still left. And while that meant that the roads were muddy quagmires, that didn't change the fact that it was _cold_. Their breath and that of the horses steamed, Connor's fingers slowly went numb as they shouted to house after farmhouse, tavern after church, that the regulars were coming, following them hours away. Bells starting to ring, and churches started to gather their parishioners at local taverns to give the warning. Churches father away were starting to ring their bells, heralding the oncoming fight. And still they rode on. Across the countryside men rose from their beds, grabbed hidden away muskets, powder, shot. Women packed food that would carry, promised to take the children somewhere safe. Other riders went out, armed with the message, and spreading the word even farther.

All behind them, as Revere rode on and Connor kept a watchful eye, people prepared.

"Where is Prescott," Revere growled as they slowed to a trot to give the horses a rest. "He wasn't where he's supposed to be."

"A friend of yours?"

"He's supposed to be reporting on Concord's readiness, what the supplies and munitions are. He should have been done and on his way back by now."

Connor said nothing as they approached the outskirts of Lexington, instead turning to glance at the moonlight darkness. They passed a small lane when Revere reigned in. "Of course! His fiancée is here!"

"Fiancée?" Connor turned his horse.

"Yes! Lydia something... Mulliken, I believe. I bet he's visiting." Revere smiled in the moonlight. "Come on! We'll need him before the day is out!"

So they took the small lane. The house was modest and Revere started pounding on the door. "Sam! Doctor Sam Prescott!" Connor continued to scan the lane and the surrounding trees and farmland. The growing season would not truly start for another few weeks, leaving fields open and easy to see through, so he kept his Eagle awake and watched, pushing his exhaustion from being up for twenty-four hours away.

"Huh, the door's open."

Connor turned. "I do not think it right to barge in to another's home."

"But we don't know where the good doctor is," Revere replied. "We can at least ask the people here, as they'll soon be his family."

Connor let out a tired sigh.

"Hello?" Revere called out. Given the early hour no one was up yet, so they immediately went upstairs. One door was opened with candlelight, and Revere went right for it. But the sounds Connor heard had him lunging to try and grab Revere before-

The door swung open and a woman, Lydia presumably, did not even notice as she was completely naked and gasping, skin glistened with sweat, as she rocked on top of an equally naked man, presumably Prescott, also glistening in sweat, grunting. His hands reached up to grasp her and as one, they both screamed out in exaltation.

There was a moment of silence which Connor used to turn around.

Revere, however, was dumbfounded. "Ah..."

Both turned and the woman screamed, scrambling forward, likely giving an even better view of her nakedness, to reach for a blanket, leaving Prescott likely just as naked and erect.

Connor could not say for sure, as his back was turned, but he was certain that Revere had gotten more of an eyeful than he bargained for.

"Prescott?"

"Evening, gents," Prescott replied, content sounding and satiated. "What do you need?" His tone clearly indicated that they had better need _nothing_.

"Um... er..." Revere stuttered. Then cleared his throat. "Listen, the Regulars are on our heels, only hours away. They're after Sam Adams and John Hancock, and the arms at Concord."

"They're _what_?"

There was more scrambling as Prescott leapt out of bed, though Connor was certain he was still stark naked and only just starting to sink after his... encounter with his fiancée.

Revere coughed again. "You need to rally your men. And put on some _trousers_!"

"At once! I'll catch up, you get going!"

They left, with Revere looking distinctly red in the face.

They next went to the Hancock-Clarke House and it was approaching midnight. Built almost forty years ago in 1738, the house had been built by John Hancock's grandfather, a reverend, with the financing of his wealthy merchant son Thomas, John's father. The house was typical of any colonists home, with five windows on the second story, four on the bottom floor, symmetrical with the center entrance door. The chimney was centered, meaning the layout was similar to the manor, with four rooms over four and a central hall.

Revere and Connor tied their horses to a post by the stone wall in front and glanced around.

"Hmmmm," Revere looked around in the moonlight. "No sign of Dawes. I hope he's alright."

"Stephane will see him through."

They stepped up to the front door and knocked. With a creak, the door opened a crack, before opening wider. Stephane sheathed his butcher knife and stepped back. Connor observed that Stephane was panting, meaning he and Dawes had likely just galloped up, much like Connor and Revere had.

"Connor," Stephane greeted. "_Bienvenue_. We just arrived moments ago."

"Mr. Dawes is well?"

"_Bien_. _Pas de problem_ for the whole ride."

Once inside, Connor realized that this was not a four over four design, but two over two. In the kitchen, a sleep-tousled Hancock and Adams were getting a kettle boiling for coffee. Both were still in nightshirts and robes.

Sam Adams turned. "Paul," he nodded. "Connor." Then he yawned. "Good to see you."

"You need to leave. The Redcoats are coming." Connor said firmly, knowing Sam's tendency to stubbornness.

"Aye," Sam replied, rubbing at his eyes. "So William's told us. Let them conduct their little search at Concord. We've already sent word. Barrett will have all our munitions gone by morning. They'll find nothing."

Connor glared up to the ceiling for patience and stillness. "You do not understand," he replied with a calm he did not feel and anxiety continued to lock his jaw and pound in his chest. "Pitcairn intends to _kill_ you."

Sam balked, his eyes wide, sleep gone from them, and his mouth open. "I... what? No! I've heard of Pitcairn, he's one of the few reasonable officers in Boston, maintained discipline where other officers never bothered."

"I'm afraid it's true," Revere said, stepping forward to warm by the fire. "The regulars are going to arrest you, do a very public trial back in London, then _hang_ you as a traitor."

Hancock started swearing in an uncharacteristic moment. "Sam!"

"I..." Sam was pale and looking a little weak in the knees. "I suppose we have no choice then, but to go." He looked around a moment, almost confused, before he stilled and started to think. "I knew I was a target, and have made myself one for _years_. Well, if they want to kill me, I'm going to make it as difficult as possible for them. We should be ready within an hour."

Hancock looked to everyone else, still swearing under his breath. "What of you?"

Revere smiled in full confidence. "Dawes and I will continue on to Concord."

"Stephane and I will stay here," Connor said firmly. "We will face off with Pitcairn when he arrives." He glanced to Stephane, who nodded solemnly, then grinned.

"_Je pense qu'un bon combat nous attend._"

Sam nodded. "Good, that will work. You can help our man, John Parker, hold the town. It'll delay the British and give us more time to spread the word."

Connor nodded. "The army will be here by dawn, Stephane and I will get some sleep while we are able."

Sleep, of course, was relative. Too much was on Connor's mind. Revere had given him a brief synopsis of events, but Dawes had given Stephane quite a bit more information. Since Gage had been sitting on his heels waiting for orders from London, the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, the shadow government that kept meeting even after General Gage had dissolved them, had been slowly gathering and storing munitions, weapons, and even two cannons in Concord and further west in Worcester. With Revere and Dr. Warren still in Boston massaging their contacts, the soldiers had made several nominal attempts to commandeer the supplies in a series of powder alarms – always bloodless, always a failure for the regulars. Now the secret orders that Warren and Revere had discovered had given them the latest alarm – only now it was coupled with the order to capture Sam Adams and John Hancock, and with Pitcairn one of the commanding officers it was a guarantee to mean murder as well. Connor did not know how the Sons of Liberty knew about the plot when even the regulars did not, Stephane had said there was a lady spy high in military command, but that was rumor at best. The munitions at Concord had long since been moved, but the threat of Pitcairn was still there, and anxiety prevented Connor from truly _resting_.

He thought of the portraits in the root cellar of the manor, Pitcairn's face, his uniform, his Scottish ancestry. Another Stone Coat would be destroyed today, his home and his people would be that much closer to safety, _he_ would be that much closer to safety. He had been training for six years, he had just turned nineteen, he was ready. He also had learned from his mistakes with Warraghiyagey, there would be no mercy, there would be no simple _stopping_; no, that man would _die_. He was an _atenenyarhu_, a Stone Coat who ate people and brought winter to the land. He was a Templar who sought to control the world. He was a man who would kill the fledgling bid for freedom to self-govern that Sam Adams and his Sons of Liberty were trying to nurture. However manipulative Sam Adams was, his ideals were sound, and Connor did not want to see the complicated man he called ally slaughtered so that others could be oppressed.

Anxiety built in his chest. He practiced stillness, trying to keep calm even as he felt the tension build in his body. He thought of the techniques taught him, both by Oiá:ner and the Old Man, evening his breathing and focusing on the goal. He pictured his movements, the preparations of Lexington, of Stephane, Duncan in Boston with Warren, of everything that had brought him to this moment. He crystallized it, freezing the moment of Pitcairn's inevitable death, and at last he felt himself relax.

Sam Adams and John Hancock bustled about the house, but Sam made one last stop, knocking quietly on the door to the chambers Stephane and Connor were trying to sleep. The young native opened the door, watching the other man's face in the pre-dawn light.

"I wanted to thank you," Sam said, now fully dressed. He was not in his typical worn, slightly poor attire but rather a new coat and vest, freshly pressed and looking more put together than he normally did. "Paul's a good rider, and more than competent as a messenger, but he's not fighter."

"You are welcome," Connor said softly.

"I'm off to Philadelphia," he said, "My cousin and the rest of the delegates will follow in a few days time. It looks like I get an early start."

"Delegates?"

"Yes, surely you've gotten word by now," Sam said, a little surprised. "We were all elected as delegates for the congress. The Continental Congress. We met last year, and now it seems we have to meet again. I daresay I don't relish fighting with those conservatives from Pennsylvania, Dickenson is nearly as stubborn as I am, but news of London wanting my head on a platter will only help our cause."

Connor was aghast. "You would use even your own danger to further your political agenda?" he asked, incredulous.

Sam gave a soft, almost whimsical smile. "You still haven't learned," he said, reaching out and touching Connor's arm. He was not forward as Revere was, but rather gentle and brief. "You'll never be a good politician, Connor, but I admire you your ideals. It reminds me of my youth, and it makes me dare to hope."

The moment hung in the air, soft and quiet, and then Sam was gone, off in the predawn hours to avoid certain death, off to Philadelphia and politics and rhetoric and oratory and motions; things Connor did not think he would ever completely understand, but at the same time respected for the effect it had on the people. Of the effect the people had on _it_.

Pitcairn would eat it all, consume it and burn it to the ground, trample his feet over it, because Haytham Kenway ordered him to. Because _Charles Lee_ ordered him to.

There was no hope of sleep after that, his mind lost in his childhood memories of the fire and his _ista_.

At four a.m. he gave up, and he and Stephane stepped outside to wait for the regulars. Moving to the town commons and saw several men milling about Buckman Tavern. Built in 1690 and Lexington's first Public House, a man with a deep, pernicious cough giving them order.

"Stand your ground, men!" he tried to shout, but his words were wheezy, hard to make out. "Don't fire unless fired upon!"

"But no one's coming! Revere left hours ago!"

"Where's the scouts? No one's seen anything. No one's coming!"

Connor and Stephane approached slowly, watching the men milling about, over fifty but less than a hundred. Others were out, along the road, in anticipation of the coming soldiers. The man in charge was trying to keep everyone there, it was clear that Connor had not been the only one who had not slept. Many had muskets, walking back and forth, gathered in small groups, as the man with the cough continued to try and rally them. The man turned to see Connor and Stephane, glancing at the bow on the young native's back, and coughed liberally into a handkerchief.

"Indian?" he asked, his wheeze barely audible. "That's a surprise. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

"I came here with Paul Revere to warn Sam Adams and John Hancock that their lives were in danger. Now I stay to help you defend against John Pitcairn."

The man, hunched forward and pale, looked Connor up and down. "Even the redskins are helping us," he muttered. "Well, beggars can't be choosers, I'll take all the hands I can get. We've got eighty men assembled, even a spade; a few more will help."

"_Bien,_" Stephane said.

"Good God I have French, too," the man muttered.

That was how the waiting began. The man with the cough was John Parker, and he continued to try and badger his men – the vast majority family in some way – to stay rallied and ready, stay in formation. Fifteen minutes later brought a scout, saying that the regulars were, indeed coming and in _force_. The reality of it settled on everyone, and the complaining disappeared. Down the road, just a little ways away, were a mass of soldiers coming here, to Lexington, to carry out the king's will without their consent. Parker coughed through his instructions.

"It's just a powder alarm," he said, "they've done this all before. They'll sweep in, make some noise, find nothing, and then go back to Boston. We are a show of force, proof to those lobsterback red devils that they won't have an easy time here. But that doesn't mean we're to shoot and raise hell. No one's declared war yet, and I'll be damned if war starts here because of us. Those redcoats are _waiting_ for an excuse to call us savages like that Indian over there." Connor's jaw set, and Stephane uttered a dark French curse, but Connor held himself to his full height, unwilling and unable to prove those stereotypes correct. He practiced stillness, tried to tune the wheezing Parker out, focus on Pitcairn. "We won't give them that excuse," the man was saying, "We'll stand straight, show them we exist, and then they'll crawl back to Boston when they find nothing. So stand your ground, but do not fire, unless fired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!

"Now, out on the green, let's show them parade formation!"

Everyone waited after that, standing straight, muskets ready, a mishmash of clothes and hats and wigs, anticipating the regulars. A few put their heads down to pray; Connor and Stephane in the growing crowds lining the street. Stephane continued to curse at the spectacle that had been made of Connor, but Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes were locked on the road, focus as narrow as an eagle, as he waited for the inevitable. For two hours they waited, silent as the weight of the wait pressed upon everyone. Quiet murmurs did not carry in the chill air, nor did the crunching snow nor the smell of mud and the increasingly light sun too much to penetrate the fact that the British were coming, and they were coming in force, and though only Connor and Stephane knew it, they were coming to kill as well as confiscate. Parker's hopes that this would just be another powder alarm were long since dashed for the two assassins, for they knew better. Five o'clock came and went, women standing in shawls and bonnets expecting the worst, men shivering in the chill and slowly growing impatient for the British to just come and go.

Pressure mounted slowly, the men on the green expressing it in different ways, unaccustomed to anxiety. Ratonhnhaké:ton had lived with this fear all his life, was used to the weight, bore it with a stiff back and shallow breath. He remembered the sleepless nights as a child, Oiá:ner trying to teach him stillness, holding him and trying to reassure him that he was safe. He had not been safe since he was six, had not _felt_ safe since his mother was ripped from him so violently, since _Charles Lee_ had eaten her and brought winter to his life. The threat of the _atenenyarhu_ was omnipresent in his mind, a constant niggling in the back of his head that prevented him from truly relaxing. He envied people like Stephane or young Clipper, or his best friend Kanen'tó:kon who could smile at life. The men and women gathered here, now, knew a little bit of what he lived with every day, and he pitied them for having to know it.

No one should know what he felt. He fought so that no one _would_ feel it.

Duncan rode up around five in the morning, the sky slowly brightening. "The regulars are a ways behind me," he said, his Irish brogue thicker than normal. "I snuck onto one o' the boats when they set out at midnight, been trailin' ahead o' them ever since. Thought ye'd want to know they're a'comin'."

His news brought a fresh round of mutterings, and Parker again tried to cough his way into a rally of his men, reminding them to be vigilant and practice restraint.

The sun broke over the tops of the trees, dawn slowly arriving around six in the morning. Everyone was impatient now. Connor closed his mind, looking out on the green, remembering the lessons Achilles gave him on greens and commons, a set of "common" land kept "green" for livestock to graze; the words were used interchangeably were ubiquitous about the colonies as he understood it. That lead him to thinking about the lack of a green at the homestead; did they need one? The Freeman farm seemed adequate for now, would that change as time went on? Did it matter in the face of what he was about to do?

Thinking about the homestead made him think of Achilles, their conversation after the death of Johnson, the need to humanize the men that were killed. Ratonhnhaké:ton had stared at the portrait in the root cellar, trying to reconcile the fact that these _atenenyarhu_ were not _all atenenyarhu_, that there was some touch of humanity in them. Would Pitcairn show it? Would he prove being worth saving? Or would he be belligerent, abusive of his power, determined to ignore what was happening in these colonies? How did Pitcairn see the colonies? England? The colonies were part of their empire, but Parliament clearly had little concern for the wellbeing of its people. Did Pitcairn, a Scotsman, feel the same? Did he talk like Terry and Godfrey, that peculiar brogue?

Comparing the Stone Coat to the loggers of the homestead made Connor briefly uncomfortable. How could one be compared to the other? One were a pair of men looking to make a living, happy to drink and fish, be bullied by their wives and work with saws and sap, chips and dust; the other was a soldier, determined to trample all beneath him. They being from the same country meant nothing. The colonies were proof of that: natives and colonists and freedmen all coming together to fight the oppression they felt. Cultural differences _could_, in fact, be transcended to achieve a common goal, and that was the simply wish of the _Hirokoa_: that men and women make their decisions rationally, with care to their surroundings and sensitivities of their diversity, in order to lead better, fuller lives.

It was with that thought that the first redcoat arrived.

"All right men! Parade formation on the green! Don't block their way; hold your fire! If there be a war, let _them_ start it!"

There was a main column, an impressive and intimidating display of color, formation, discipline. The redcoats were the most famous, most powerful army in the world, and watching them march down towards the green proved them worthy of that reputation. All feet moved in perfect unison, all muskets were perfectly positioned, all hats held at the exact same angle. Flags fluttered in a chilled breeze, and all sense of the April cold left as anticipation went from pernicious to consuming, all the militiamen collectively gulping at the impressive display before them.

A second column swooped down from another lane, nearly surrounding the green; Connor watched many men pale as they calculated their odds if things went south.

"Hold your fire!" Parker coughed, his voice barely audible in the measured pounding of so many marching feet.

Several soldiers broke step and ran towards the militia, an uneven cry of "Huzzah!" erupting from their throats, clearly trying to intimidate their enemy. Parker was in a fit of coughing, but was determined to keep his men under control. Battle lines were formed, the militia staring dumbstruck, as three companies took formation, and, at last, Connor saw Pitcairn.

The confusion was only heightened as the Scotsman rode in, his sword waving as he shouted, "Disperse! Disperse, you damned rebels! Lay down your arms and disperse! Men! Hold your fire!"

"You heard the man!" Parker rasped, his voice having no weight at all to carry. "Disperse! We've made our point!"

The regulars were still shouting their huzzahs, Pitcairn was shouting orders that could only barely be heard and Parker had no hope of anyone hearing him. The men near him did begin to disperse – at a defiantly slow pace, while others still stood their ground, uncertain what was going on. Nobody laid down their arms as Pitcairn had ordered and noise continued to build up, shouting and some curses and Pitcairn on his horse waving his sword and trying to get the world to do as he wanted. Connor's gaze narrowed, and he looked to Stephane and Duncan, and all three nodded as one, agreeing this was the moment to strike. They retreated from the noise and climbed to the roof of the tavern, Ratonhnhaké:ton drawing his bow and taking slow, careful aim. He was no longer in Lexington, above a crowd, listening to chaos; he was in the deep dark of the woods, quiet all around him, only the sounds of the game he was hunting filling his ears. He reached into his mind for the eagle and its hyperawareness, and just as he touched it the distinct sound of a musket filled his ears.

Someone, somewhere, had fired a shot.

"Bloody hell," Duncan cursed. "All hell's breakin' loose."

The initial display of English discipline and strength had disappeared, the redcoats firing a devastating volley into the eighty odd militia without orders, a move that made Pitcairn – whom Connor had lined in his sights – turn in a look of shock before shouting more orders, trying to prevent more firing. Militia shouted that it was only powder, no shells, but several had fallen and there was blood in the grass. The militia fired back, or tried to, but they were completely demoralized and everyone ran for their lives. A ragged bayonet charge began, running one man through while other soldiers were starting to bang on doors, set to invade private homes in a complete lack of understanding that officers including the enraged Pitcairn were shouting orders.

Drums could be heard over the din, slowly, and as the last of the militia ran away the regulars finally began to reform.

"Our chance is lost," Stephane said softly. "The confusion is gone."

"I agree," Duncan said. "We'd best be off to Concord; we'll get a second chance there when they stop at that farm and look for the powder."

Connor agreed – _very_ reluctantly – and they left the roof of the Buckman Tavern, grabbing their horses and galloping west to Concord listening to a "victory" volley being fired by the redcoats. He set his jaw and turned away from his target, hoping better ground could be found.

News had swept over the countryside about shots fired at Lexington, nobody quite knew what was true and what wasn't, but people were coming from everywhere: Waburn, Framingham and Sudbury, Reading, wanting to know more, wanting to know what they could do. Revere's and Dawe's ride had worked, they and the other riders had spread word all across the colony, and now with news that shots were fired, they ran to face the threat. Many were marching past Connor and the others, determined to see with their own eyes what happened at Lexington, an impressive display of perhaps two hundred, two hundred fifty men. Connor tried to recall them, saying the regulars numbered about seven hundred, but with so many confused reports nobody knew quite what to believe.

The seven mile ride ended with the Concord and Lincoln militia mustered at the small town, nobody sure what to do. Connor made a beeline to the man who seemed to be in charge, spying Dawes with the man and knowing he was in the right place. He pulled on the reigns so hard his black mare skid in the slowly thawing mud, kicking the muck up into the air before he dismounted in a flurry. Anticipation was mixing with anxiety and disappointment, he was vibrating with energy that he did not know what to do with as he hoped to bring the news and leave to find the perfect place to kill the Stone Coat.

"Blood's been spilled in Lexington, and there's more to come. The regulars are on the march."

"You don't say?" the man in charge, Barret, said with a deep, gravely voice. "Why do you think I've men up here on the hill where it's safe? Go home, 'fore you get yourself killed. I've enough to worry about without some green boy looking to play at hero."

"_Mon dieu_, 'e is not-!"

"I can vouch for him, Barrett," Dawes said. "He rode with Revere, and is a good man for an Indian."

" 'For an Indian'? _Quoi?_"

"Easy," Duncan said, quelling the former cook's passion.

"Fine," the man, Barrett, said. "You can join everyone else. The plan is very simple. We surrender the town. With regulars and their famous discipline I'm not about to take part in a slaughter. We'll remain here until they leave."

And so, on a hill a half mile north of town, Connor and the others watched as the two hundred fifty militia retreat back to start, the redcoats not five hundred yards behind them, and begin their search of the town. Connor asked for his eagle's help again, straining his eyes and his senses to find Pitcairn, to see him so that the young native could move to strike. Ratonhnhaké:ton began to feel stillness as he waited, his mind slowly emptying of everything as he prepared himself for a second time to kill an _atenenyarhu_. Side conversations that Duncan had with Barrett and his farm, the place the munitions had been stored that had started this whole debacle, had hidden the weapons in the furrows to look like planted crop, slowly faded away, intent settling on Ratonhnhaké:ton once again. He could visualize the moment, could begin to relax into the wait until he saw smoke coming from the town.

"What's it mean?"

"My god they're setting Concord on fire!"

"Did they find the cannon in the tavern? Is that what we're seeing?"

"Easy, boys, easy," Barrett said. He stared down into the town, eyes narrow, flicking back and forth, counting. "They've only a few companies," he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "All right, boys! We're going to get a little closer. Let's move down to Punkatasset Hill, down by the North Bridge! That should give us better eyes!"

His focus broken, Connor stood and turned to see that the number of militia and minutemen had swelled dramatically. He glanced at Stephan and Duncan, and the former priest spread his hands. People had come from Acton, Bedford, and Lincoln, and more were streaming in, boys and men and old men with muskets and powder ready to turn the redcoats back any way possible. Numbers had burgeoned to four hundred, and Stephane assured the other _Hirokoa_ that more were coming.

They moved to the lower, flatter Punkatasset Hill, and with such a clear view of the town they all realized that they outnumbered the soldiers guarding the bridge. Bassett made a decision.

"Men! Load your weapons! But _do not_ fire unless fired upon! They are the aggressors, not us! Forward!"

Four hundred men marched down in one long, dramatic line, two deep, down the highway, taking the regulars by flabbergasted surprise if their expressions were any indication. Connor watched as the redcoats retreated over the bridge and tried to make a new formation perpendicular to the river the bridge crossed. It was another disorganized mess for the strongest army in the world; men in formation blocking those still retreating in taking up _their_ formation. A shot rang out form somewhere in the British lines, and Connor _still_ could not find Pitcairn. The shot caused the same response as it had in Lexington, a ragged volley of redcoat fire, splashing awkwardly into the river before some lucky balls hit the militia in the front of the column.

One of Barrett's men shouted an order. "Fire! For God's sake, fellow soldiers! Fire!"

And, just as the redcoats had a disorganized mess of formation, so too did the minutemen. Several men tried to fire over the heads and shoulders of the men in front, and a ragged volley cut into the redcoat body, several officers going down. Connor tried to circle around the men, looking for a way into the town to find Pitcairn. Stephane and Duncan had disappeared, lost in the swell of humanity that was bound and determined to do battle on either side of this bridge. The spring floodwaters were too deep to ford, the current too strong to swim, the young _Hirokoa _was forced to wait until the bridge was clear to get into the town and begin looking for the _atenenyarhu_. However much he sympathized with the Sons of Liberty, they did not represent his people, and it was his people he was trying to protect. He had no stake in this war other than to kill the Stone Coats before they consumed the colonists and natives alike.

The redcoats were woefully outnumbered and surprisingly outmaneuvered, and the strongest army in the world broke formation and ran back towards the town.

"... We did it?"

"We did it!"

"Take that you yellow-bellied red devils! Who's laughing now!"

"_We did it!_"

"I think I got one of them. I got me a redcoat!"

"_We did it!_"

Barrett was shouting again, getting control of his men and left a small contingent to guard the bridge while the rest were sent back to the stone walls on the hill to watch for more opportunities. Reinforcements had arrived quickly, but held back as the officers rode forward to inspect the problem. The people around Connor were muttering to themselves, begging for the order to fire since the officers were _so close_. Ten minutes passed as the standoff built in anxiety once again, Connor uncertain if he could take much more if he didn't find Pitcairn and _soon_. The standoff was only broken when the village idiot wandered onto the bridge offering to sell hard cider.

The lobsterbacks retreated back into the town after that, and every colonist on the hill, and more as more came, watched the regulars finish combing the town for weapons, eat lunch, and then begin the march back to Boston.

"We did it! They're turning tail!"

Barrett looked out to the dead littering the bridge. "Takes a true monster to do something like this..." he muttered fatalistically. "At least they're gone."

Connor was not so pliant. "I should have struck when I had the chance," he confessed. "Do you know where Pitcairn could've gone?"

"Back into the withered bosom of the royal governor no doubt - so that he might regroup and plan his next atrocity."

"I need to find him," Connor said, his anxiety making him indiscreet. "Every day I wait, more will suffer..." So many were dead already, and Sam Adams and John Hancock would have been among that number if Pitcairn had his way. How many more would be eaten by the Templar ambition? How many more battles like this would be fought? How could he live with himself knowing that Pitcairn was still out there, that he had missed his chance at Lexington?

"Chin up, friend. Many who should've died today now live because of you. Because of everyone. There's a victory in that."

Connor gestured to the bodies, stench of death everywhere. "And what of them?" he asked, unwilling to accept something like _this_ as a victory.

"We did the best we can with what we've got," Barrett answered, his voice low, tired, sad.

Connor was unmoving. "It is not enough."

Dark eyes answered him, followed by an acknowledging sigh. "Hm. It never is."

Ratonhnhaké:ton took his horse and mounted, hoping to catch up to the regulars and find Pitcairn; Duncan and Stephane eventually found him and regrouped as well.

What they witnessed was an atrocity unlike any of them had seen before. The regulars, seeking only to return to base, were harassed constantly by the minutemen. Swells of men from different parts of the colony came and took up positions with fat rocks and trees, hidden from obvious view of the regulars, and would fire devastating volleys into the soldiers. One bloody crossfire killed thirty soldiers in one volley. At Lexington the redcoats tried to chase after the militia, but always the colonists seemingly disappeared, too familiar with the ground, of where to hide, and nothing came of the red devil advance. An organized withdrawal devolved into a total rout. By two p.m. reinforcements had finally arrived, singing the tune of "Yankee Doodle" to taunt and antagonize the colonists. The harried troops were rested and wounds treated, that hour and a half of time brought even _more_ colonists to the fore, and the march back to Boston was filled with antagonistic attacks. Now that blood had been spilt, the colonists acted out every aggression, every angry thought, every bloodthirsty desire for revenge that had built up and built up and _built up_ after years of heavy-handed Parliamentary policy. The Boston Massacre's ugliness inflicted on the colonists was returned with interest, building further and further as more and more men arrived, as more and more soldiers fell to their volleys, and confidence began to build in them as they realized the regulars were not the disciplinary machine their reputation had suggested – but rather a collection of green recruits who had no idea what they were doing. Massed attacks were replaced with thinned out skirmishers, muskets picking off men, high-pitched whistles plaguing the regulars and causing them prolonged stress. Every whistle, every dropped body, added another horror to an already harassed, tired, and abused collection of men who were slowly forgetting they were soldiers at all.

Homes were used as sniper positions, making every building a possible source of further casualty, and that was the straw that broke the army's collective backs. Stone walls and houses were all cleared – but not in an orderly fashion but in one retaliatory atrocity after another. People who had no part in the militia were summarily killed for no reason, taverns were ransacked and liquor stolen, a church was ransacked and Ratonhnhaké:ton watched as the sacramental silver was stolen. Many of the redcoats got drunk off the liquor they stole, making their retaliation even more vicious, and still the militia inflicted damage. Menotomy and Cambridge became bloodbaths. Both sides inflicted horror after horror, and this was unlike any battle Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever heard about in his village. He marveled that the white man called his people savage as he watched little more than savagery being performed on both sides of the fight.

What did a battle like this represent? Freedom versus oppression? No, Ratonhnhaké:ton could not convince himself that this could even be considered a battle, even the great predators, bears, wolves, did not waste life this way. There was no _niá:wen_, no offering of thanks for serving a need; it was ugly, unfettered, unbridled hatred causing more hatred. How could the settlers and regulars fight like this? How could they _live_ like this? Did this cause men like Barrett to settle for what small victories he had? Why did no one reach for something clearer, cleaner, purer than this? Even Sam Adams, politician that he was, did not condone the violence of the Boston Massacre, his very idea of the dumping of the tea was to prevent bloodshed. Where was his vision in this, the ultimate result of his actions?

Where was the sense in all of this?

And, in the middle of it all, surrounded by other redcoats, Pitcairn rode, unmolested, unable to be reached. The frustration of seeing him and not getting to him drove Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly mad, as did the atrocities he and Duncan and Stephane bore witness to. All three men looked to each other, uncertain what to do, how to complete the task they had given themselves. Should they stop now? Was the opportunity totally lost? Was there nothing more to do?

No, Ratonhnhaké:ton refused to believe that, and he continued to follow the militia and the regulars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS WAR. No, really. Unlike Ezio and Altair, who have backgrounds in warfare, Connor is from a culture that views war completely differently. The Haudenosaunee had their enemies, certainly, but their forms of war were very, very different, and watching men who have been deeply stressed for months (or in the Colonists' case, years) finally break down into what happened during the return march from Lexington and Concord, well. Like Connor says: where's the sense in this? But then again the two of us are pacifists, and we always take a certain dark pleasure at showing war as it really is: bitterly ugly, senseless, and devastating.
> 
> It was very tempting to make the assassins in some way responsible for the "shot heard around the world," the shot that nobody knew where it came from and instigated the firing at Concord - even one of our betas suggested it; but because of how Connor and his people view war we couldn't quite bring ourselves to make him responsible for the Revolution more than the game itself already does. Moreover, it would make more sense for him to focus on Pitcairn rather than the fight itself - even the game acknowledges that he's not a Son of Liberty, a Patriot, he's only there to kill Templars. Sam Adams, however much he does like the man, has soured his taste for the fight; and others will continue to wear down the moral support he has for the fight. Also, the mystery is a little more romantic than just having someone like Clipper firing his rifle and somehow missing.
> 
> Also, the game in a microcosm: "We did the best we can with what we've got." "It is not enough." "Hm. It never is." So thematic to Connor and what he's trying to do.
> 
> The beginning of the chapter was also a nice soft beginning to what is otherwise an intense chapter. Ziio popped up quite a bit between Hunter's birth (so adorable!) and Connor's waiting for the redcoats to arrive. More on her (and by extension, Haytham) later.
> 
> And, if anyone care's, it's our birthday today.
> 
> Next chapter: Do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes.


	14. Death of a Soldier

With the British once more behind the fortifications in Boston, Connor sat down with Stephane and Duncan. All three agreed that Pitcairn was essentially trapped in the city, unless he chose to escape by ship. But that was unlikely given the pride of the armed forces. And the constant wait for orders from London. Pitcairn, having not seen or faced Connor or the other Assassins, still didn't know that he was being hunted, so that would be another reason for him to feel relatively safe. Their immediate plan was to slip into Boston and kill Pitcairn, but several things went wrong.

For starters, Duncan had done some scouting before following the British troops. The home Pitcairn was staying in, across from Revere's house, was crawling with soldiers and officers, even with Pitcairn on the march with so many men. Getting in would be difficult without more scouting and coming up with what Pitcairn's routine was and how to get him alone. But that would not work since the regulars were now patrolling the docks to prevent word from slipping out as it had so easily about Lexington and Concord. While it was still possible to slip in to Boston at night, the risks were far greater. And once in Boston, maneuvering for several days with all the soldiers patrolling the city, would present even further troubles.

"We can blend with the citizens, but those that are left are avoidin' any redcoat they see," Duncan shook his head.

"The British, they send more troops every day, _non_?" Stephane observed. "Our prey will not just run away. He is trapped and doesn't even know it."

"Then we must wait," Connor said softly, not liking this. The anxiety was building in him, and it was seeking a release he could not provide. "Stephane, I would ask you to return to the homestead and let the Old Man know what has transpired and what we plan."

Stephane scowled. "You would send me away?"

"It is only a two day ride. You will be gone a week at most. And the British do not leave Boston without the colonists knowing well in advance," Connor replied.

"_Merde_, you do this because I call out _les imbéciles_ when they use slurs."

Connor said nothing, fought for stillness, and stayed impassive. "Ours is a life of not being noticed," he replied.

"_Vrai_. I'll go cool off, but I will _not_ tolerate any speaking ill of you."

To that, a corner of Connor's mouth twitched up. "Let them think of me as they will. Any who know me know my worth. If others choose to underestimate me, then that is their choice."

Stephane still scowled. "_Bien_, if you want it that way, so be it."

Connor nodded. "And Stephane?" Connor looked away, embarrassed. "I... Would you bring my dream-catcher?"

Stephane blinked, surprised, but smiled. "_Bien sûr_."

After the horrors of what they had seen of war, Connor thought his dream-catcher might be more necessary. The _Haudenosaunee_ believed that _kanontsistóntie's_, Flying Heads, were created from violent murder. The severed head would grow to massive size or emerge from mass graves with eyes aflame and long hair tangled as it flew around. The undead monster would pursue humans to devour them and cannibalize them. Traditionally, war was not thought to create _kanontsistóntie's_, and a war between native tribes probably would not. But having seen how Europeans waged war, how the militia and the regulars had angrily slaughtered each other, Connor couldn't help but think a _kanontsistóntie's_ might form. Not in reality, but in his dreams. And Connor truly didn't want to face a Flying Head, even in his dreams. It would be impossible to act out the negativity.

Connor shook his head. There were other things to focus on.

By far, the most amazing thing that Connor and Duncan observed, was the amount of people showing up to take watch around Boston and keep an eye on the British army. Many towns in Massachusetts sent militia men by the score until there were several hundred within a few weeks. But what was more impressive, by far, was the militia sent from towns not even a part of Massachusetts. There were militia from Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New Hampshire slowly pouring in as the weeks went on. Every unit voted who their commanding officer would be, which struck Connor as strange since many times the people they voted for didn't seem to have much military experience, if at all. Doctor Warren, one of the last Sons of Liberty to finally escape Boston and had sniffed out that the British were going to arrest Sam Adams at Lexington, was voted to a commanding general of some kind.

It was an amazing thing, looking at white, black, and even some red men standing shoulder to shoulder with other colonies, all in defiance of the British. This coming together... Connor wasn't sure he could even call them simply Colonists. What they were was too diverse and different to think of a name. The one thing they all had in common, the only thing linking them all together, was that they were American.

As Connor prowled the shores, constantly trying to think of a way to slip into Boston and scout more information to find and kill Pitcairn, he couldn't help but notice how people had come from far and wide. A man named Israel Putnam, pushing closer and closer to his sixth decade, had heard of the battles of Lexington and Concord and left his plow in the middle of the field of his Connecticut farm and rode the one hundred miles to Cambridge, just outside of Boston, in eight hours to offer his services. He was voted to major-general and was one of many trying to organize the ragtag militia into something that could hold the British back. He served under the aged Artemas Ward who was voted in command of the fifteen thousand men who went from Boston Neck all around the Back Bay.

While the militia units were from towns, there were also random citizens who showed up to help. A Marylander who was visiting family in Connecticut might come up immediately, or a Virginian who was in Providence for business grabbed a musket and marched up. So much support was coming up and rumors of men coming from even _farther_ away were abound and no one who had been put in command quite knew how to organize them.

Connor couldn't stand it. The lack of efficiency grated at him. After years of training how to fight and how to fight with Duncan and Stephane and now Clipper, he was _used_ to coming up with plans and making them work. Even for something as simple as raising the Freeman barn, or figuring out how to shake Clipper's senses to finally see things differently. The contradicting orders and misunderstandings that were going on as men from New Hampshire refused to be commanded by a man from Massachusetts or an officer blundering along in figuring out how to command a regiment was appalling.

The militia themselves provided their own frustrations. They showed up with their own shot and powder, which officers were soon realizing may not be enough, there were no uniforms to speak of to identify the different units, they didn't have any supplies for camping around the Back Bay, and their muskets were either in great condition or, more likely, the most horrendous condition that Connor had ever seen. And these people wished to fight the organized, disciplined might of the British Army.

Unable to stand it, Connor took to pulling some aside and offering pointers on how to shoot straight, how to estimate proper distance, how to _properly take care of their muskets_ in the spring showers that kept passing through. Stephane returned with Clipper and the Old Man's blessing to keep at it. Stephane and Clipper both also took to giving lessons on shooting to whomever needed it and Duncan attempted to slip into Boston to get more information, despite the great risks. Duncan was the only citizen of Boston who was somewhat known and could get information. Clipper didn't have any contacts and was still too green and Stephane was a known Son of Liberty sympathizer.

As May continued to progress, getting warmer and warmer and everything continued to bloom, Connor continued to fight back the agony of anxiety that burned within him. He did everything he could to keep busy and practice stillness, training some of the militia helped to keep him distracted. Duncan had returned with less than thrilling news, having barely been able to get any troop movements, let alone figure out Pitcairn's routine. There was no way to get close to officers as they were often in large groups. Even though many of the citizens of Boston were either Tories or those too poor to evacuate, it was a rare thing for a British soldier to be found alone. He would either go out to relax with members of his unit, or he was rushing between one command or another, or he was drilling with his regiment. And, to further make matters difficult, Governor Gage, the General of the British Army in the entirety of the Americas, had received back up. Three other generals had arrived with reinforcements to provide assistance.

For all that Boston was locked from all the countryside surrounding it, the British still controlled the sea, and could ship whatever they needed into Boston.

With three new generals to "assist" Gage, there was no doubt amongst the Americans, that the British would move soon.

Finally, on the thirteenth of June, word arrived from the Committee of Safety, the functioning government once the British had disbanded the Assembly. The British were planning to capture the heights outside of Boston. The Dorchester Heights, on the peninsula south of Boston, and Charlestown, a peninsula north of Boston. Both had hills that overlooked the city and would be devastating if cannon were atop them. The Committee of Safety started to scramble, seeking confirmation from spies in Boston and to get more details.

Connor sought out Doctor Warren, who eagerly let Connor in on the meetings, claiming that Connor had saved the lives of Sam Adams and John Hancock ("It was the militia that fought who did that, I merely provided word of approach.") and had a keen insight for battle ("There are others better trained than I, and with more experience.").

"Look, Connor," the elected major-general said tiredly, "you do things. You inspire things. You see things so differently than I do. Let me use your view of things so that I don't see more men die. With Sam and John and all the others in Philadelphia, I've ended up filling the power vacuum and I _need_ people like you to fill in the gaps I'm hopeless on. I'm a doctor, not a fighter."

Connor sighed, but stayed silent in every meeting, not wishing to stand out.

Word arrived that the British were planning to take Charlestown first, and the hills that dominated, both Bunker Hill and Breed Hill, named after the farmers who owned both. Then, once they had Charlestown, they'd go after Dorchester.

Artemas Ward, the general who was in command of the fifteen thousand militia, sent Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who had abandoned everything once he'd heard of Lexington and Concord, to Charlestown to set up defenses. Connor slipped away to speak with his fellow Assassins.

"There is to be a fight to see who will control Boston," Connor said softly over the fire. "The commanders seek to put their cannon atop the hills outside of Boston."

"_Merde_," Stephane swore. "They do that and they can fire upon us all along the Back Bay."

"I don't follow none of that." Clipper looked around, confused.

"They'll have the heights, lad," Duncan replied. "They'll get more distance in their shot from those heights."

As Duncan continued to explain to the very young Clipper, Connor continued. "I expect that the army will not send their generals, but instead leave that to the regulars and their officers."

Stephane nodded. "_Et_, if they are going from ship to land, then they will need _les marines_."

"That is what I am counting on," Connor locked his jaw against his anxiety and uncertainty. "With Pitcairn there, it will be easy to kill him in the chaos of the battle."

"Where will ye need us, lad?" Duncan asked.

"I believe it best if we spread out with the Americans. If any of us can find an opportunity, Pitcairn must die." In a way that hurt to say. Connor felt that _he_ should be the one to kill Pitcairn. It was Pitcairn who worked for the _atenenyarhu_ Charles Lee. But Pitcairn had already escaped once. Connor would not let that happen again. Even if he couldn't be the one to sink his blade or _tamahac_ into Pitcairn's blood. "This will not be easy," Connor stressed. "The navy will surround Charlestown in order to bombard any Americans with canon. There is no guarantee we will all make it out alive."

Duncan snorted. "That was a fact o' life once we joined ye. Ye needn't worry about that."

"_En effet_."

"Don't you worry none."

The night of June sixteenth was warm and muggy with all the moisture coming off the water. But there was a steady breeze to make it tolerable as Connor, the assassins, and the Americans snuck off the isthmus connecting Charlestown with the rest of Massachusetts and started to silently build a redoubt and dig in. They received brief fire through the night, the regulars likely seeing what they were doing, but it inexplicably stopped, leaving them to continue their work. There was one problem however that Connor noticed.

"This is not Bunker Hill," he whispered to Peter Salem, a former Massachusetts slave who was one that Connor had been training to shoot.

"Aye," he said softly. "It's Breed's. The farmers have already taken their cattle elsewhere, else the regulars will steal it."

"But I thought we were building on Bunker Hill."

The black man gave a soft laugh. "There's been some... disagreement as to where we should encamp."

Connor frowned. "There was no such argument when this was planned."

Peter grunted as he hefted another shovel of earth out into the darkness. "Well as I hear it, Bunker Hill is higher and has a better view, but Breed's Hill is closer to Boston, which is the point. And those smart people say that Breed's Hill here is easier to defend." Peter shrugged in the darkness. "I'll take easier any day."

But easier was not always right. Frowning heavily, Connor continued to help with building the redoubt, piling the earthworks six feet high and letting those with carpentry experience come in to brace the work with wood and build a platform to stand on for firing.

As the night continued and the redoubt took shape, the twelve hundred men sent to the hills started to fall in to their positions as areas were finished. Looking around, Connor noted that many seemed terrified. Whispers spread rumors that the regulars were going to land any second and simply mow them down, others hissed that the London elite weren't going to come at all and that once the Americans got canon on the hills, they could shell the Tories and regulars that had infested Boston. _Then_ the redcoats would take the hint and finally leave them all alone.

As arguments were hushed back and forth, Connor slipped away. It didn't take long to find who he was looking for. "Colonel Prescott?"

"Yes? Oh, you're that Indian I've seen around."

Connor nodded. "Many of your men seem... worried."

Prescott gave a grim smile. "Not surprised. So many of them barely know how to shoot. I've been telling them to wait till the lobsterbacks are within a hundred yards, but many of them don't even know how far that is."

"Is that not a simple solution?" Connor replied. "Put a stake in the earth a hundred yards from here. When the redcoats are past it, fire."

"Yes, we'll do that with more light and I've got some other ideas," Prescott sighed. "I've been up and down the men and talking to the officers to make sure they'll control the men." Prescott quieted his voice even further. "These men aren't fighters. They're shopkeepers and farmers. They barely know which end of the gun to point. The biggest problem isn't when they shoot. It'll be if they're there to shoot."

This Connor did not understand. "These are good men who have seen evil and are here to stop it. How can they be men if they do not?"

Prescott looked to Connor, eyes wide, mouth open. Then he let out a low chuckled. "Boy, if all these men are like you, then I've got nothing to worry about."

"Sir!" a man hissed as he approached. "Sir, we have a problem!"

"What is it?" Prescott whispered back.

"The hill! We can be attacked on both flanks!"

Prescott looked out to the sky that was slowly turning grey. He muttered a curse and turned to Connor. "You're on the eastern flank of the redoubt. Get the men down the hill and digging in for a breastwork so that we'll be safer. Lobsterbacks are supposed to land on the north half of this peninsula, so that's where we'll need the forces most desperately." Prescott swore again. "I don't have enough for the west flank! We'll have to leave it!"

Connor frowned, not liking that he had just been ordered around. He was not a militiaman, he was here for one reason and one alone. He was not a part of this struggle, though he supported it. Yet he blended in so well, that he was mistaken as a member. That was a blessing and curse, it seemed.

He had just finished explaining the orders to the officers of the various units when something like thunder roared in the distance. Out of the darkness came a harsh whistling, and then an explosion as a cannonball struck the ground, then another and another, until a dozen had buried themselves within the fortifications. Everyone swiftly huddled to the walls, which were high and thick and the cannon balls that struck only loosened dirt. It lasted for almost fifteen minutes before stopping.

"We must hurry," Connor said to the officers.

They got back to work.

Word came down the line that the cannon shots from earlier had killed a young private from Billerica, a small town to the northwest, and was being buried with a solemn, if very, very quiet, funeral.

The sun continued to rise, and scouts with spyglasses were watching riders in Boston race around as the redcoats started to really realize that their plan to take the hills commanding Boston was beaten by the entrenching Americans. It felt like Connor and the rest of the eastern flank had only just finished the breastworks when the ships opened fire again, all along the Mystic River. Regular canon from Copps Hill in the North End of Boston fired, only pausing when other large men-o-war sailed by to anchor on the Charles River to fire as well.

Cannonballs bombarded them everywhere, but the strong earthworks worked well for defense. Charlestown itself wasn't so lucky. Any building that was too tall was in the way of the artillery from Copps Hill in Boston, and Charlestown was shelled to give a better line of sight for the American defenses on Breed's Hill.

The town _burned_.

The surreality of it all made Connor lock his jaw and bite down against the memories of his village burning. Now was not the time to relive that horror. Now was not the time to remember his broken mother, bleeding under burning wood. Now was _not_ the time to again be six years old and helpless. It was not longhouses that were burning, but houses. It was not the same. It was _not_.

By mid morning, those with spyglasses started to report that the British seemed to _finally_ be doing something other than uselessly shelling the ground and were organized enough to start shipping their men to the peninsula. Around this time Doctor Joseph Warren, from the Committee of Safety, arrived. Despite his high ranking and being voted as a general, he simply came and crouched down between Connor and Peter.

"Connor," he greeted, his voice quivering with nerves. "I see we're in for a fight. By Heaven I hope I shall die up to my knees in blood."

The native said nothing, handing his musket over to the doctor. Connor pulled out his pistol. He'd have to rely on this for the day. "I can only hope you have arrived with more men."

"Yes," Dr. Warren nodded, looking to the musket with an edge of fear. "We should be up to three thousand now." He carefully lifted the musket. "I've treated wounds from these. Not often, praise the Lord," he said softly. "But I've never handled or fired one before. Guns. Such terrible weapons."

"But sadly necessary," Connor replied. He placed Dr. Warren's hands to the necessary positions. "You will aim down the barrel. Accuracy is lost with greater and greater distance, so you must always wait until your enemy is close enough."

Dr. Warren shuddered. Connor continued, weeks of teaching helping him guide the scared doctor through how to load, how to aim, how to fire. The mere hours they had before the regulars landed ashore would not be enough, but Dr. Warren refused to run away. Lunch was brought down the lines, officers telling the men to eat up because they were going to need every bit of food they could today and only God Himself knew when they would next eat.

At two o'clock, the British finally landed, or so the word was. The redcoats were at Moulton's Point and organizing into their grand display. The cannon fire had stopped, leaving many to cheer or sigh in relief.

Orders from General Putnam, back on Bunker Hill came and went, but officers didn't always choose to obey, not trusting orders from someone from another state, or not trusting a general who had fought with the British in the French and Indian War, despite many men they were shoulder to shoulder with _also_ having fought in that war.

It wouldn't be long.

Officers continued to prowl up and down the lines, offering encouragement and advice, "Let's give those bastards hell!" "Hold your fire! Wait for 'em, let them come to you!" "_Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!_"

It was a fine parade for the British, neat lines of hundreds, four deep, in perfect formation, making the slow steady walk across the pasture. Officers on horses pranced around, shouting orders, waving their swords.

Connor narrowed his eyes, calling for his eagle. Pitcairn would be out there somewhere, and he needed to know _where_. But his eyes were not drawn to what he sought. But the lines of bright red kept coming, a breeze keeping the pasture clear of smoke.

Turning to Peter and Dr. Warren, Connor went over the basics of a musket again.

Peter smiled, his dark skin shone with sweat and Dr. Warren wiped his own sweat from his brow. "We'll be fine, Connor," Dr. Warren said, still trembling. "You focus on surviving and we'll do the same."

Off in the distance, Connor could see the stakes he'd mentioned to Prescott set out, and all along the lines, officers were telling the men to hold their fire, to wait. "Pick your targets! See their faces! Memorize them! When you can see well enough for that, we'll pour lead into them, for now, _wait_!"

The silence of the pasture was almost encompassing after the continuous cannon shot all morning. The British had their fifes and drums keeping the waves of red in formation and marching in complete synchronicity, while American officers kept a tight hold of their own men. Somewhere, further down the line, came a single American shot, and many British fired back.

"Hold your fire! They just wasted their shot, _don't waste yours_!"

Warren and Peter both trembling, Connor found his stillness, memories of the Old Man drilling him on how to use a musket and pistols resurfacing as he watched the British continue their steady advance. This was no different than all the training he'd done for years and years. Silence enshrouded him and he could hear nothing, as he'd found a man two hundred yards away. Scottish, by the look. Maybe Irish. Scowling and displeased, but still marching forward. Connor wondered why the man was here. What twist of fate had pulled that man from his family into the military, and what had pulled him to America? These redcoats were not _Stone_ Coats. But they were in his way and Connor was sorry that they simply had to die. This war would have started without him, _had_ been started without him as he'd trained and learned under Achilles. And now, with great sadness, Connor realized that he was going to have to use this war as a cover. That the deaths of thousands and thousands of men would be used to hide his hunt for the Templars.

Connor took steady aim, thought of the Scottish lumberjacks back at the homestead, Duncan and his Irish cousins out across an ocean. Was this man related to them by some strange twist of fate? He would need to offer his condolences. Connor would remember this man, this man who he was about to kill. He would remember him, and remember that he had not chosen to die, but had accepted the risk by joining an army. He would remember that this man would be killed by Connor's choice and that it was not one Connor would prefer. He would remember. Because Connor fired his pistol, and the man crumbled, and the man would never remember anything again in this world.

Dr. Warren and Peter fired their muskets as well, and the regulars fell before them. The Americans stared at what they had done, then swiftly ducked down behind the protective earth and started to reload. Connor talked both Dr. Warren and Peter through the steps carefully and thoughtfully, demonstrating each step as he reloaded his own pistol.

Colonel Prescott crouched by, checking everyone and their officers, making sure that everyone was ready for the next volley. For there _would_ be another volley. Dr. Warren, unsurprisingly, asked if he should check the wounded.

"No wounded, sir," Prescott replied softly, give an almost gentle smile. "They fired early and couldn't aim well. That won't last. I'm sure we'll have wounded for you by the end of the day. 'Specially if the damned lobsterbacks get here with their bayonets." Prescott moved on.

"I meant _their_ wounded," the doctor muttered.

Peter gave a dark chuckle. "Doc Warren, sir, you're too good a man to lose."

"I beg your pardon?"

"To leave our earth is to die," Connor explained softly. "Simply climbing over the earthworks would mean you would be an easy target. And doctors of your courage are hard to come by." Though Connor was certain that Lyle would fit that description as well. Connor suddenly wondered about the homestead. What was going on there? What were they hearing? Did they know of the fight going on here? Had any of them come down to fight as well? Connor hoped not. The homestead was a refuge of peace for all who settled there, and he did not wish for them to see the horror surrounding them. Was the Old Man worried? He'd fought in the French and Indian War, had he lost fellow Assassins during that time...

Someone shouted and everyone peaked over the earthworks to see the parade of redcoats starting to advance yet again. Officers were once again keeping a tight hold on the men, Prescott almost everywhere with harsh words of encouragement. Watching the regular advance, Connor called on his eagle again, but there was still no sign of Pitcairn. Where _was_ that man?! Did one of his friends kill him? Would Clipper's keen eye catch the marine, or Stephane's? How would he know?

Still the British advanced, and Connor's eyes sought out a new target. This one very English and very scared. Once more Connor wondered about this man, barely more than a boy. What had brought him here. He was clearly terrified, yet he still marched in perfect order with the others.

"_Niá:wen_," Connor whispered. "Thank you for your life, may it be used so that others might live."

"_Fire_!"

Once more the redcoats fell, but unlike before, where the redcoats had wasted their shot, the redcoats fired back. Americans started to fall and Dr. Warren immediately dropped his musket to start treating the wounded. Peter slid closer to Connor, filling the gap as he could. There were more volleys before the British retreated again.

Prescott was once more charging up and down the lines, hunched, and shouting orders. Putman was trying to send reinforcements, but the moment the reserves left their fortifications on Bunker Hill, they turned and ran. The cannon that were supposed to be coming up had disappeared because the officer was terrified.

"_Damned militia_!" someone cursed. "Got no stomach for a real fight!"

Connor disagreed. Everyone here was militia, just as terrified, and yet they stayed. They had repelled two advances by the British and the pasture was now red with blood.

"Does anyone have _any_ ammunition?"

Calls came up and down the lines for ammunition, but there was none to be had. Putnam couldn't send anyone or anything forward without massive retreats, possibly desertion, as pure terror of the hell around them caused men to break and flee. Connor handed out some of his own powder and musketballs, but tried to ration enough for himself. But without knowing how many more advances the regulars would make, he wasn't sure that even he had enough.

"Here they come!"

Connor leaned against the earthworks, looking around. "_Pitcairn_!" he growled, as his inner eagle screeched. He could see the marine, just behind the parade perfect lines, out of immediate line of sight. He couldn't kill him yet. Connor would, sadly, need to thin the ranks before him. In a distracted way, Connor wondered if perhaps he should have a second pistol, to help him fire faster, but put that thought aside.

It was once more that silent moment as the redcoats advanced, officers telling their men to hold their fire and be prepared to use their muskets as clubs. Many could _only_ use their muskets as clubs since there was no ammunition to be had. Connor kept his eyes on Pitcairn the entire time. He did not think of where Pitcairn had come from. He did not think of what twist of fate had brought Pitcairn here. Because Connor already knew. He knew why Pitcairn was there, and it was because Connor was going to kill him.

The regulars continued their advance, bayonets gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Connor wiped sweat from his brow and was briefly surprised that his sleeve was soaked through already. But he put that aside.

"_Fire_!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton's first shot was to kill one of the men in front of Pitcairn, as was his second. His third shot might have hit Pitcairn were it not for the fact that some of the redcoats had made it over the earthworks and were starting to fight. Ratonhnhaké:ton threw down his pistol and pulled out his _tamahac_, wielding it with the precision and skill he'd been honing since he'd first asked one of the chiefs to teach him when he was but a child. As he hacked and spun through the red devils, ever coming closer to Pitcairn, Ratonhnhaké:ton noted that Peter was standing clear of the earthworks and taking aim. With one shot, a shot from a black man, Pitcairn fell.

"My father!" a shout from further away came. "_I have lost my father!_"

"We've _all_ lost a father," someone shouted back.

Ratonhnhaké:ton ignored the fighting around him, slipped through the mass of bodies, ignored the organized retreat of the Americans. Instead he rushed over to Pitcairn, lying in the bloodied grass, surrounded by red bodies.

"Why..." Pitcairn gasped looking around wildly, "why did you do this?"

"Templar," Ratonhnhaké:ton spat. Pitcairn finally focused in on Ratonhnhaké:ton and glared with all the might he could, which wasn't much as he lay dying. "I did this to protect Adams and Hancock and Warren and all those they serve. You meant to kill them-"

"_Kill them_?" Pitcairn hissed as he gasped. "Are you _mad_? I only wanted to parlay. There was much to discuss. To explain... But _you've_ put and _end_ to that now."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. Had he misjudged as he had Johnson? But no, it was all twisted to the Templar purpose. But Ratonhnhaké:ton would still be the better person. The Templars offered nothing to those they killed. Ratonhnhaké:ton, who understood the weight of death and of killing so that others might live, offered softly, "If you speak true then I will carry your last words to them."

"They must lay down their arms," Pitcairn gasped. "They must stop this war!"

"Why _them_ and not the redcoats?" Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. Templars always seeking things their way...

Pitcairn grimaced and glared again. "Do you not think we asked the same question of London? These things take _time_. And it would have _succeeded_, had you let me play my part."

"The part of the puppeteer," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled.

"Better we hold the strings than another!"

"No! The strings should be severed. _All_ should be free!"

Pitcairn gave a bitter, watery laugh. Then he coughed. "And we should live forever on castles in the sky," he muttered. "You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a _child_. And more," he whispered, "will die now because of that..."

Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a heavy sigh, letting his anger leave him as Pitcairn finally died. The two disagreed on such a fundamental level, but Ratonhnhaké:ton would not be vindictive now that the man was dead. "It is better to have faith in something, than none at all..." he offered in his native tongue as he closed Pitcairn's eyes gently.

"_Father!_"

Chaos was still all around him, the Americans were starting to retreat, and in good order. Ratonhnhaké:ton let the chaos encircle him, and slipped away.

* * *

The Americans regrouped once again on the other side of the Back Bay. Connor and the others regrouped as well, and Connor uncomfortably explained the death of Pitcairn, and his curious words about wishing to parlay, of the Templar efforts to get London to listen to the Colonist grievances; his caution that things took time, the plan to manipulate everyone behind the scenes. Stephane and Clipper both scoffed at the Templar words, quick to wave it off as lies and unable or unwilling to realize the implications of the words. Duncan, the brightest of the three, saw Connor's distress and herded the other two aside, letting the young man have time to wrap his head around what he had learned.

Everything Achilles had ever taught him implied that they would back London; that their conservative values would be resplendent in Parliament's conservative-dominated movement and their heavy handed approach to bringing the Colonies to heel. Templar philosophy dictated that entire countries be under their hand, that one person's will would be administered over all. The idea of the tiny body of Parliament controlling a vast empire spanning several continents was exactly the format that the Stone Coats would want. In theory the tiny governmental body would be slowly overtaken by them and they would rule the entire empire. To have Pitcairn, the very _atenenyarhu_ who would advocate such an approach, suggest they were trying to _stop_ the dictates of Parliament, made Connor question the very foundation of everything he had been taught since he was a child. Did the _atenenyarhu_ have a different plan? Or a different philosophy?

… Or was Achilles wrong? The thought of the Old Man being mistaken was hard to fathom; he was so learned, so cognizant of _everything_ around him, Ratonhnhaké:ton could not comprehend it. He perched in the trees, high above the activities of the Colonists, trying to reconcile two victims of his blade and their words. Twice he had learned that the men he sought to kill were more human than Stone Coat, more rational that he had initially thought. Did he have to kill them? Could the two factions reconcile? Could he and his father...?

But that would also mean reconciling with _Charles Lee_, and his mouth pressed into a vicious frown at the very thought. No, there had to be a different reason. There had to be some explanation as to why Pitcairn and Johnson answered as they had for their crimes. There _had _to be.

Word slowly passed through the ranks that the Continental Congress had assigned a commander-in-chief: a man named George Washington, a Virginian. Clipper spoke of the man with a small amount of awe, saying that he heard the man speak once in the Virginia House of Burgesses, knew him as a surveyor. He didn't know much else after that, and word was that he was riding up with the rest of the staff that had been elected under him straight from Philadelphia.

With no new word of the Templars, Connor and the others left the Americans to their war. The ride home was quiet, even Stephane sensing that Connor's thoughts were heavy. He dreamed of _kanontsistóntie_, undead flying heads. That morning he looked at his dream-catcher and saw a string was broken. He pursed his lips, knowing it had been in perfect condition the night before. He needed a stronger weave. He would have to start from scratch.

Achilles was at the door, watching them come up the path. He said nothing, hunched over his cane, before going back into the house, staring at the blank space above the hearth in the dining room. Connor and the others unpacked, Connor especially slowly, his mind adrift with thoughts, until he heard the distinct hobbling of the Old Man coming up the steps and down the landing to the front of he house where his room was. Without a word they went downstairs to the Old Man's room and to a game of fanorora. Ratonhnhaké:ton moved his pieces slowly, uncertain how to create a chain, and Achilles beat him in less than a dozen moves. Three games later after similar one-sided matches, Connor at last started to put his mind to task and concentrate. The next game lasted over an hour as they slowly whittled at each other's pieces. Achilles still won, but Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind was clearer than it had been for days.

He looked up. "Are the Templars always so complicated?" he asked at last.

Achilles leaned back in his chair. "Yes."

At length Ratonhnhaké:ton explained what had happened. Achilles absorbed it slowly, his eyes narrow and his frown pushing his lips forward. A long pause drew out as the older man absorbed the information. "It is entirely possible that they have another goal," he said finally. "The Templars are many things, but subtle is perhaps the most dangerous. Divining their intentions can be as difficult as treading the ocean barefoot. It may be that this revolution that is starting here in the Colonies in point of fact disturbs a deeper game that they are playing. The important part of Pitcairn's words," he added in his papery voice, "is that whatever their goals _they_ want to be in charge. _That_ is the root of the philosophy, and they can always be counted on to place themselves at the head."

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt better for the conversation. Slightly.

June bled into July, and word reached the homestead that Washington arrived at Cambridge to take command of the Colonial forces. Benjamin Church was part of the receiving party, and Ratonhnhaké:ton lamented that he did not stay with the Americans and have his opportunity to kill the _atenenyarhu_ who had been so callous to him as a child. Worse, the Templar was named Chief Physician and head of the Hospital Department and Army Hospital – _over Dr. Warren_, Sam Adams' right hand and only remaining member of the Sons of Liberty hierarchy! Why—except word also arrived that Dr. Warren had been shot during the retreat of Bunker Hill, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not known – and placing Church perfectly to wreak havoc to the Colonists, which he promptly did. Many travelers complained about Church's leadership.

Putnam, the Connecticut man who rode a hundred miles in eight hours to join the fight and helped manage Bunker Hill, was named a colonel of a Connecticut regiment. Washington himself recognized what Connor and anyone else remotely trained in military arts knew at a glance: there was not enough munitions. Farmers and smiths did not have a ready stock of pistol and shot, powder and ammunition. The stockpile that had caused the Powder Alarms for so long would dry up in an instant now that blood had been spilled, indeed most of it was gone after Bunker Hill. One of his first orders was to order raids on English arsenals all along the east coast to take the munitions necessary to survive.

A captain named Nicholas Biddle sailed out to do exactly that. Once that passed through the homestead, Faulkner had his crew rallied in less than two hours and was off at sea to do what he could to the sailing Templar.

News came in every day it seemed, the war was all anyone wanted to talk about, learn more about Lexington and Concord that started it all, learn about the smoke over Charlestown, the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Everyone was worried about what it meant. Prudence was terrified of her child growing up in the middle of a war and agonized every day what would happen if the war came to their new beloved home. The Scotsmen Godfrey and Terry were worried that they would be pulled into the fight like in the old country, and Catherine and Diana in a similar vein worried for their sons. Lance was singing praises of the work of the Sons of Liberty much to the annoyance of everyone, oblivious to the death that was being wrought. Nobody quite knew what to do or how to react to the news, until Achilles, sitting by the hearth at Mile's End with his drink, looked out across the worried tavern and simply said, "No use worrying about what isn't here yet."

And, like one of Dr. Lyle's balms, everyone's spirits were soothed.

As the dog days of summer creeped on, all available hands were called to the farm to help with the crops. Vermin were coming out of the woodwork to nibble, then eat, then consume everything in sight, and with Prudence manifestly watching over her still-new son, others came in to pick up the slack. Myriam was the bright spot, she suggested surrounding the property with rosemary, a plant that rabbits and other animals didn't like to act as a natural barrier. Norris nodded at everything she said, and the two walked together back into the woods.

Oliver and Corrine couldn't be happier with their inn, the two were constantly seen holding hands when they weren't working, and could often be found sitting in front of their inn, watching people walk by and talking, sharing memories, discussing their love for each other.

But then, the fight broke out.

Drink had been involved, given it was the Mile's End where it started. Terry and Godfrey were the participants, also of course, and true to what Godfrey had said, it was just over a year since the last fight. Connor had gone down to the tavern on an errand for Achilles, and when he entered he saw the two Scotsmen grasping at each other's arms, fighting for footing as they knocked over a chair and hurled slurred slurs at each other. Oliver was trying to placate and separate them, Corrine behind the bar and rushing to get glasses and flatware out of the way. Lance was there holding the sons back from breaking up the fight, his own apprentice Christopher doing the same. Diana was off in a corner, looking bored at the sight.

Connor sighed, knowing this was natural but concerned for the parties involved, and tried to intervene.

"This fight is surely unnecessary," he said slowly, slightly loudly to be heard over the grunts of the brawl. He put a hand on Terry's shoulder to get his attention, knowing he was the likely instigator, and the redhead turned and blindly reacted to the touch, throwing a punch straight into Connor's jaw. His head snapped back, and for a moment the entire room was breathless as they realized just what had happened.

Terry, still drunk, immediately dug his heels in. "Don't interfere with a fight between men, you filthy sav-"

Godfrey grabbed his best friend in a chokehold before the slur could be finished, throwing him to the ground. "That's enough!" he shouted, his brogue bouncing off the walls. Diana, too, was in the fray, grabbing her husbands shirt long enough to aim for a swift slap to the face.

"_Terry Rodrick Blair!_ I've had enough!"

The Scotsman was quickly subdued after that, and Oliver ushered Connor into one of the inn's back rooms to be treated. "Haven't had a fight like that in years," the heavy-set man said. "Must be getting old to not see the signs. Lord knows I won't let him drink that much rum in the future."

"Ollie, is he alright?" Corrine asked, sweeping in with a basket of rags and a wash basin.

"I am fine," Connor offered.

"We'll get the doctor," the older woman said, ignoring the young native's words, "Lyle's a good boy, he'll tend to all involved. We'll offer him some rum punch, that should keep him from charging too heavily. Here, Connor, do you want something to drink, settle the nerves?"

"No, I hardly-"

"Can't believe we had a fight break out! In _our_ inn!"

"I was just saying the same thing, Corrine. Can't imagine us being _that_ old..."

"Do you remember how we met? There was a fight then, too."

"Can't say as I remember that," Oliver said. "All I remember is the hearth, the smell of the spirits, and you."

Corrine smiled, slapping a rag across his arm before putting it in the basin. "You tease," she said. "It was at that coffeehouse in Boston, what was its name? Finest establishment in the city, well, beyond our own of course. But all those spirits hurt a man's mind, and a fight broke out. Some hooligan pushed me aside, and you caught me."

"Yes, you fell into my lap, like an angel from heaven, and I've been smiling ever since."

The two looked in each other's eyes, lost in their fond memories, before the moment passed and Corrine left to treat Terry. Dr. Lyle arrived quickly and gave Connor a pass, saying only that the bruise would be terrible for the first week and that eating would hurt for about that long. Terry had much more work to be done, and another scar would be mapped out on his already rugged face for the most recent fight he started. Diana helped with the stitching and the two went home, Terry leaning heavily on his much smaller wife. Godfrey had fared the best and laughed it all off, reminding everyone that the calendar could and would be set by those "little" outbursts.

June lazily dragged into August, and Ratonhnhaké:ton assembled the materials he needed for a new dream catcher. If the bad spirits were strong enough to break his first, he wanted his second to be even stronger, and he took great care in constructing it and handling the materials. He spoke to Achilles about the Flying Heads that haunted his dreams, but the Old Man seemed immune to hearing such bad news, saying that nightmares were not a product of the spirit world but rather the reflections of one's own mind. Ratonhnhaké:ton most assuredly did _not_ want to know what his mind was like if it created such terrible dreams, and instead he worked extra hard on his dream catcher.

Faulkner came back from his voyage with little success, saying that Biddle had been put in command of an armed galley for Pennsylvania, and was now all over the eastern seaboard. Connor went with him on the next excursion, sitting atop masts and watching the clouds and the stars, smelling the wind and listening to the waves, asking his eagle to help him in his search for what he needed. His level of awareness slowly increased on that voyage, being able to sense further and further away, identify ships as friend or foe before Faulkner or others could. Connor also took notice of a change in the wind, asking Faulkner what it meant as the captain noted it himself, and immediately called all eyes to the south.

"A hurricane!"

After that was a flurry of activity and orders, hatches being secured and lines tied, anchoring the cannon and sweeping the decks of any loose material. Faulkner gave strict orders to Connor, who took the wheel, and tried to guide them away from the storm.

That failed, and so Faulkner told Connor to change tack, head into the storm instead.

"Is that a good idea?" he asked.

"If we can get on the lee of the storm where the winds are weaker, we can force our way through and to a safe port, until then we'll be pulled right into its eye!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. "Hurricanes have eyes?"

"Move boy! Hard to port!"

Rain lashed at them, whipping from seemingly every direction; the decks were slick with water, making walking in the brute force of the winds dangerous. Faulkner gripped the rail like his life depended on it, and it very well did as lightning began to spike around them. Three lines snapped and men were called from below deck to fix them, waves crashed against the ship so strongly as to tip them dangerously in one direction or another until Connor's eagle told him which way to face. For six hours they went through trial and tribulation, avoiding capsizing, keeping crew and cargo safe, maintaining some modicum of direction.

And then all at once, the winds relented, and the clouds parted, and the sun glistened off the soaked ship. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, surprised to see the sun, and looking around in wonder. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Connor! Hard to starboard! We want to be facing the right way when the back of this storm hits us!"

And they were almost immediately back in the storm, once more struggling for footing and fighting to survive.

By nightfall the storm had passed, and Connor once more climbed the mast to look at the stars, trying to ascertain their location after that... _experience_.

For a brief moment, the world was still, the stars were bright, and there was quiet. The rage of the storm had passed, and calm had settled over the sea.

Ratonhnhaké:ton reached out and touched that calm, drawing it into himself, giving him strength for what was to come in his life, and for a moment he thought he felt it reach back, and he was satisfied.

Afterwards he went below to join an equally exhausted Faulkner with his findings, and they poured over navigational charts to determine their position and what do to next. It took three days to get to Havana, and a week there to make the necessary repairs. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched port from the ship, curious to see the lay of the land but hesitant to expose himself to the slave auctions, the pens they were kept in, a sight he knew he could not ignore. Faulkner kept a hand of the young native's shoulder, understanding. "You remind me of Adéwale," he said. "Met him when I was a boy I did. Escaped slave, worked for Eddie Kenway, your grandsire, before he turned Assassin. Worked hard here in the Caribbean, fought a lot of personal demons too. Big man, strong as a galleon, cursed almost as good as your grand-pappy."

Connor looked at his hands, a question burning in his mind. "Did you know my grandfather?" he asked.

"No," Faulkner replied. "He was long off back in England when I was a boy. Word was he was a pirate first and an assassin second. Adé used to say the man had to fight his own demons before he could join the Brotherhood, but I don't know much about that. But you ask any man who's sailed these waters, and they can tell you the legend of Eddie Kenway, the white shadow of Blackbeard. I can take you to Nassau, if you like, meet some of the old codgers that still remember that far back. They've a story to tell, but only if you get them enough rum."

Connor shied away from the thought. He already had the thoughts of his father ruined with the knowledge that he was an _atenenyarhu_, he was not sure if he wanted his grandfather's name similarly besmirched. "What do you know of him as an assassin?"

"Not much," Faulkner said. "Adé never said much about it. He was a late convert, I know that, and he spent two years on the Yucatan training. Killed a grandmaster here, some Spaniard, and then went back to England. I've only docked in London once or twice, the real money's in the Colonies. Sorry lad," he added, touching Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder as they watched an auction on the far side of the dock. "I know it means a lot to you."

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, watching the auction, and reminding himself of the calm after the storm.

He still didn't know how he was supposed to feel.

* * *

Coming back to the homestead was a relief. There had been no sign of Biddle, and though Ratonhnhaké:ton's eagle was stronger for the trip he did not feel proud of wasted work. Achilles watched his approach from the door, explained briefly about the recruits being on a supply run, and then sitting him down to another game of fanorora.

"What do you know of my grandfather?" he asked softly.

"As little as Faulkner," Achilles said slowly. "My Mentor, Ah Tabai did not keep written records like myself or others, but some brothers in London sent a letter once, saying that Edward Kenway was a thoughtful, quiet man of deep reflection on the life he had lived. He served the Order well, there, but only when he deemed it appropriate. His time in the Caribbean had burned his old life to ashes, and he was careful with handling his new one. No one knows why his son turned to the Templars. I suspect it was after Edward's murder, however."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. "_Rakshótha _was murdered?"

Achilles blinked at the native word, pursing his lips at the faux pas before nodding his head. "Templars," he said simply.

Ratonhnhaké:ton spent days mulling that over, trying to decide what he was supposed to think or feel about it, trying to understand how that fit in with what little he knew of his _raké:ni_, his father. Did _Ista_ know this? Did she know why _Raké:ni_ had become as he had? Was that why she left him? Was that why he ordered the _atenenyarhu_ Charles Lee to eat their village? For the first time he wondered about his _akshótha_, his grandmother. What was she like? What was her name? How did any of this justify the cruelty of his _raké:ni_?

He didn't know, and in the end he shied away from the question, instead pouring himself into his training, trying to be ready for the next confrontation.

September was a month that rapidly cooled; the beginning would have the days of August's blistering heat, and by the end would be downright cool. As the one early tree of the valley began to turn, Faulkner went back to his normal trade routes, the recruits continued their training, and the homestead continued to live their lives quietly, sheltered from the war as Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped his people were, separate from the struggles of freedom and liberty and instead carving out their own lives in testament to what tranquility truly meant. The young native would walk the path from the manor to Mile's End, saying hello to Warren as he brought his yield to the docks for Faulkner, or catching sight of the Scotsmen as they moved logs down the river to their mill, or spying Myriam as she wandered into the town with her back laden with furs and trade. She had a soft glow to her face now, smiling as she went behind the inn to visit Norris before ducking back into the woods for more goods.

Connor caught up on news to learn that Church, as Chief Surgeon of the rebel army, had sent a ciphered letter to the military command in Boston. A court-martial would be held in early October, and Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he should sneak into the camp and be done with it. Achilles stilled his hand, a move that irritated him to no end, for he could not understand why waiting on the death of Church, _again_, could gain anything.

He worked off the energy early the next morning, running farther than he ever had before, and making a slow walk back before stopping off at the inn. He would rather breakfast there than with the Old Man. Inside the two were pouring over a heavy, steaming pot of something, together as they were in everything.

"...delicious, love," Oliver was saying. "Connor! What brings you?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't feel like explaining his anger at the Old Man. "I was passing by and thought I would stop in and see how you were faring," he said.

The older man smiled warmly. "That's nice of you. Well, my boy, we are faring very well."

"Between those who live here, the sailors coming and going from the pier, not to mention the travelers, our beds are always full and our taps are always flowing," Corinne said. "It's better than Boston in that respect; the best money was made when there was a scandal about, Sons of Liberty stirring the pot over some such, and you risked your neck for the money you made. Not here, though, no it's just travelers going from one place to another, as it should be, and we're so happy to be here!"

Connor smiled, slightly. "I am pleased things have worked out for you here."

"As are we, Connor," Oliver replied after taking another spoonful of the pot. It smelled delicious. "I'd be lying if I told you we weren't worried when we were ousted from our old place, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. Here, have a bite. Corrine just made it, new recipe. Uses elk's heart that hunter girl Myriam brought it. Tastes marvelous."

For the next hour Connor played taste tester for the Miles, eating foods much heavier than he was accustomed to and giving his opinion as he could. His stomach was full to bursting when he was done, and he knew that he would have to work off the extra weight or be sick to his stomach later. He went to the farm with that in mind, passing by the doctor's house; Dr. Lyle could normally be seen sitting on an old stump in the shade, reading his most recent medical journal or taking notes on different herbs he had found behind his house. He was absent today, meaning he was already off to help someone in need.

He found the doctor instead at the farm, his corn cob pipe out and smoking with Warren, Prudence in a chair tending to the baby, a pleasant smile on her face. They saw the young _Hirokoa's_ approached and welcomed him easily.

"Smoke, Connor?" Warren asked.

"No, thank you," he answered politely. Smoke pipes were meant to be used only ceremonially, he would never smoke one for no reason. But, like many other traditions, the white man took what he needed and made them his own. It was appropriate for Dr. Lyle to have such a pipe, he was a medicine man, and they were expected to keep ceremonial pipes. Warren, however, had no such excuse, and there was clearly no ceremony being held. Ratonhnhaké:ton refrained.

"We were just recalling the eventful day of little Hunter's birth," Lyle said, a smile on his face.

Connor remembered the day vividly. "I am not sure I have ever been so anxious." At least for something other than the safety of his people. With the changing seasons, he was beginning to feel that itch to see them, learn how they were doing and assess for himself how safe they were.

"Ha!" Dr. Lyle said. "Not nearly as anxious as Warren here. Do you remember his face as the baby crowned? I thought he would faint dead away."

Connor shook his head. "I stayed in the stables," he said softly.

Warren gave a hearty sigh, blissful smile on his face. "I barely remember a thing up until the moment I heard him cry. Then, it all slows down and I recall every little detail. From Hunter's wailing face, to Prudence's teary eyes filled with pure joy, to the smell of the snow and the fire. I've never been as happy as I was in that instant."

"And that happiness has never left," Prudence said, staring at her child with unhidden love. "Every day since is a miracle to behold, and we cherish every moment."

Lyle smiled, soft and gentle. "Things in this house sound right," he said, a wistful tone in his voice, something in it Connor recognized but could not name. He frowned, watching the doctor as he adjusted his glasses and finally stood, putting his pipe away. "Well," he said, "I'd best be going. I have a busy day today."

"We will see you later, doctor," Warren said, getting up and escorting them to the edge of the property.

As soon as they were gone the doctor sighed, reaching up and touching his breast, patting something hidden in his coat. He looked to Connor, realized he was caught, and sighed again. "Connor," he said, "might I have a word?"

"Yes," he said slowly. They walked down the path toward the bridge. "What do you think of our little plot of land, Doctor?"

The wistful smile again. "It's quite beautiful," he replied in a soft voice. "I'm grateful you found me. But to be truthful people outside our community still avoid me like the bloody plague. It baffled me for a time but then a courier delivered this to me." He pulled out from his breast pocket a letter, and he gazed at it heavily before sighing for a third time. "Before you found me Governor Gage demanded I not treat Patriots nor their supporters. I refused so they set about destroying my business. This tells me their smear campaign is still very much in effect. Even after almost a year the broadsheets are still abusing my name. 'Doctor Death! Come for healing leave in a box! Beware the White Death!' If it was just localized to Boston that would be one thing, but a campaign that thorough bleeds out everywhere. If things don't change, I may be forced to leave." He sighed again. "Warren and Prudence, they and this settlement have done more for me than any man or woman in Boston. I'd hate to leave them. Perhaps they'll be more accepting in Canada."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, surprised to see the normally so intellectual and put-together doctor look so down. He remembered when they had first met, the man drowning his sorrows in drink. The man had never touched a glass since except during parties or celebrations. He kept the children healthy and always dropped whatever he was doing to lend a hand. He was as invaluable as the Old Man himself. "We need you here," Connor said. "I will do what I can to end this defamation."

Dr. Lyle smiled, wistful and sad. "We're talking about a royal governor," he said. "I doubt very much that there's anything you _can_ do."

"Then _you_ will do it. With me. Come, we must speak to the Old Man."

Achilles was not surprised in the slightest to learn of the fate befalling the doctor, but rather he shared the doctor's beliefs in what was possible.

"Boston is under siege by the rebels, and General Gage is waiting orders from London on what to do next while his new generals dawdle and preen and vi for the right position to topple the Royal Governor. Gage is now, presumably, desperate to hold on to what little he has; or, more likely, he knows his time is up, and that makes him even more dangerous. Confronting him directly will do little to no good, and that's assuming you can even smuggle yourselves into the city with _two armies_ staring at each other over the Back Bay."

"Then what _can_ we do?" Connor pressed.

"Nothing," Achilles said, standing up with the aide of his cane and hobbling around the desk to end the interview. His limp was stiffer than normal, had been all year, and he grunted as he put his weight on his bad leg. Dr. Lyle immediately asked questions, trying to assess what had changed and taking notes on the answers, willing to help even as his reputation was slowly shred to bits.

Inspiration struck Connor in that moment, and the next day he dragged Dr. Lyle onto a wagon and rode a full day into Salem, and then Cambridge; forty miles to the rebel army. It was mid October now, and the rebel army was struggling to look anything _like_ an army. Many had left for their farms for harvest, commanders were only just beginning to understand the difference between being an elected official and a _commander_ of an _army_, Washington was riding up and down the camp, waiting for something, anything to happen to allow him to make a move. Connor saw the man only from a distance, a huge man on a horse with a stream of staff riding behind him, but had other priorities than to eye a Virginian who held _slaves_.

Many men were sick, the camp spreading dysentery to almost everyone, and Dr. Lyle immediately put his medical knowledge to use, treating the sick and explaining the treatment to others so as to spread his work out to the entire camp. It was a ragtag group of everyone and everything. There was a black regiment from Rhode Island, Virginian riflemen, Georgian bushwhackers, Pennsylvania frontiersmen. The diversity was staggering and Dr. Lyle didn't care a wit about it, treating anyone and everyone. He stayed for almost a month, doing what he could, as Connor discretely witnessed the court-martial of Benjamin Church. The man was articulate and passionate, but even in his oration his Templar sympathies bled through and all Connor could see was an _atenenyarhu_.

By the beginning of November, Church was found guilty and expelled from the army, off to Norwich, Connecticut for his confinement. That set Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind at ease; he now knew where to find Church when the time came to kill him. Dr. Lyle needed to be handled first, and he let the doctor do his work.

In the second week of November, a carriage from Philadelphia arrived, and out stepped two men: Sam Adams, that Connor recognized immediately, and another man that everyone else seemed to know on sight: someone named Benjamin Franklin.

Ratonhnhaké:ton learned by osmosis that Franklin was something of a Colonial celebrity; the man was an accomplished printer – and in fact the author of Poor Richard's Almanac, that Achilles had used so often to teach Ratonhnhaké:ton how to read. He has spent some ten years in London's finery, and had come back still to represent the Americans in their bid for restitution and independence. His son was Royal Governor of New Jersey, devout Tory and a scandal to any who admired Franklin as a man. Connor had thought a man of such repute would be taller, and cared little for knowing him personally in light of his other priorities. Sam Adams, however, was a different matter. He wanted news on the Congress, wanted to know what was happening at the collection of united colonies and what they would do. He sought the man out.

Sam was not surprised to see him. "Still here, are you?" he asked, a wry smile on his face. "I should have known."

"I was just wondering," Connor said softly, "What happens now?"

Sam smiled, in his element. "There's quite a lot to do. Commander Washington over there must determine when and where we'll strike next. And we need to get to work on our message."

"... Message?" Connor asked.

Sam was already nodding. "We've already contacted the broadsheets – ensured it's clear to everyone that it was the Loyalists who fired the first in Lexington."

"... But no one knows who fired first," Connor said. "I was there, and no one could tell where it came from."

"I know," Sam said, perfectly fine with the facts of the matter. "Which is exactly why we must spread the news quickly. We'll determine public opinion."

… ?

"This seems... dishonest," Connor said slowly, uncertain how to express his discomfort at the idea. It was a misrepresentation of facts. He remembered Parker's words at Lexington, his desire to not fire a shot until the regulars did, but how could one say, one way or the other, what really happened? Why tell the world one thing, when that one thing was shrouded in uncertainty? It was a miscommunication at best, a lie at worst, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew well the forked tongue of the white men. Of Sam Adams himself.

Adams was unrepentant. "Perhaps," he said. "But so what? People must believe we acted in self-defense. Else, we've committed treason."

"... But you _have_," Connor pressed.

Political fire entered Sam's eyes, a look many knew very well. "Better to bow and scrape before a tyrant then?" he said, ready on a dime to orate. "Is that what you suggest?"

"No of course not," Connor said quickly, not about to go through another lecture. "No one should be denied freedom. And yet... To change the truth... It seems a dangerous road to travel." It was such a fine line to walk; so what if it was appropriate now, what if the precedent of doing something so dishonest lead to a further misstep down the road? What if it was used at an inappropriate time at some later date? To lie once opened the gates to lie again, and to get away with such a lie left one unable to realize the weight of the lie, leaving one to think one could lie with impunity. Flint lied with his forked tongue many times, and while as an _Hirokoa_ Connor had learned slowly to understand the _value_ of a lie, he had yet to be able to _justify_ a lie for something as grandiose as the greater good. The world was a black-and-white etching, made up off the Twins Hahgwehdiyu and Hahgwehdaetgah and looked after by Iottsitíson. To lie was to eat the truth, and Ratonhnhaké:ton would never feel comfortable with that.

Sam saw his anxiety over the idea, and he smiled as he would to a child. "Understand, Connor," he said gently, "this is a war fought not just on the battlefield, but within hearts and minds as well. We need to convince London that we are completely justified in our actions, if we can do that, the Whig Party will take over in the next election, and we'll finally have some room to breathe, air out our grievances, and make a bid to break off from the empire. There's nothing wrong with a bit of theater – especially if it saves lives."

… Did the ends truly justify the means? Ratonhnhaké:ton was uncertain.

Washington had dismounted his horse, back from some ride, and his litany of staff trailed after him. A large swath of dogs came as well, barking left and right, hovering around the feet of any who would spare a scrap for them. Washington talked with someone, clearly making his way over to Sam and Connor.

"Truly," Sam said, "there is no man better suited to the task."

"Really?" asked a voice. "I can think of several."

All at once he was a child, struggling for air, looking up at a man in a stone coat and with stone eyes and with a stone heart, arrogant vitriol of a language he didn't know flooding over his ears, the foul stench of hatred as his vision darkened, as the November chill entered his tiny body. The self-serving tone, the languid arrogance, the accent of contempt, Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that voice all too well; it having been burned into his mind, never to be forgotten, to be relived in nightmares when his dreamcatcher broke, and haunted every action he had taken since he was six. Anxiety welled up in his chest, painful and tight, then all at once he remembered he was no longer a child. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nineteen years old, a trained _Hirokoa_, and had two _atenenyarhu_ dead at his feet, human flesh or no.

And now, he had the _first atenenyarhu_.

"_Charles Lee_," he growled, hatred twisting his dark face as he turned to face his ultimate enemy.

The man before him had changed in some ways; he was no longer clean cut but slovenly. His hair was askew in every which way, his coat misbuttoned, crumbs in his scarf; dog hair littered his uniform. But the eyes, the cold blue eyes the color of stone, the condescending gaze of a man who ate people his entire life, had not changed. Anger bubbled up in his belly, rising up to his already taught chest and he thought he would burst. It was everything he could do to prevent himself from killing this man on the spot. First there had to be words, challenge, this demon needed to know what was about to happen to him.

The Stone Coat glared at Ratonhnhaké:ton as if he were a disobedient dog. "Do I know you?" he asked, tone callous.

"I would not expect you to remember," he started to say, but a hard, almost painful grip pressed on his arm and he turned hateful eyes to Sam Adams as he man politely tugged him away. "Come Connor," he said quickly, placatingly, "there's someone I want you to meet." And he dragged Ratonhnhaké:ton away from the _Atenenyarhu_, away from _Charles Lee_, away from his _ultimate_ target_. How dare he!_ Lee was right there!

"Sorry to pull you away like that," Sam said quickly, seeing Ratonhnhaké:ton's unquenchable rage, "but the last thing we need is the two of you coming to blows. That man there is Charles Lee, second in command of the Continental Army. We can't have you going off and challenging him, it will hurt our image, make us look divided. Smile, Connor, smile and act like you were pleased to meet him while I introduce you." And then, in a louder voice, "Connor, allow me to introduce you to our newly appointed Commander-in-Chief, George Washington."

The man was a giant, even to Ratonhnhaké:ton's impressive height, and he gave a firm handshake. "Ah!" the Virginian said in recognition. "So you're the one who saved Sam and John at Lexington. They told us it was a close call, closer still if not for you. We're all grateful for your work."

Too many things were going on for Ratonhnhaké:ton to keep track. His eyes were still on Lee and he was itching, _itching_ to go back and kill the spawn of the Evil Twin. _He was right there!_ He only half answered, his mind not on the greeting, "It was the Patriots who did that, I merely lent support."

Washington smiled. "As humble as he is brave," he said, looking to Sam. _Lee!_ "We could use more men like you. I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me - I should attend to Charles over there. He looks none too happy about now, and we can't have my second in command losing focus. It was good to meet you, Connor."

And the big man breezed away, talking to _Charles Lee_ and _leading him away_. No, _no!_ He was _right there_! There to be killed! Don't lead him away! Let Ratonhnhaké:ton kill him!

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned hate-filled eyes to Sam, and the politician smiled in the face of it. "Now that's an altogether different beast," he said gently, aware at least in part of the danger he was in. "Let us leave it for another day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noooooooooo! You were so close Connor! To hell with propriety just kill him and be done with it!
> 
> Er, anyway.
> 
> One of the trickiest things to make work is the fact that characters like Lee and especially Church are RIGHT THERE but history dictates that Connor can't kill them yet. It's quite the dance especially since their locations are well known because they are either high ranking members of the army or politically influential people. Even locked up in jail, Church might be somewhere safe and easy to find for now but that doesn't mean that Connor can just ride down to CT and kill him when it pleases him, and that trail of logic was the hardest to either come up with or hand wave. Sam is a good persuader, however, even as he further breaks poor Ratonhnhake:ton's brain with settler duplicity.
> 
> But yeah, there are other parts of the chapter, too. Note that once again Connor tries to think about his father but can't bring himself to face all the emotions and confusion that the label Haytham Kenway lampshades. We were also able to get in a little bit of Eddie Kenway - while we may not like his character arc we respect him as a character and it's bad form to bash a character just 'cause. If that were the case Haytham would look very different then, well, what he'll look like when he pops up again.
> 
> Also GEORGE WASHINGTON! It's just a little cameo for now, and maybe it's a little arrogant to say, but any American fanfic writer must drool at the chance to write from his pov. The research for his character and what he had and hadn't accomplished by that point, where he was in his beliefs and his goals, was only topped by the litany of "This kid!" moments when researching Lafayette. Connor's opinion of him isn't too high right now, like the settlers he's kind of making snap judgements, but Washington has an affect on people. Even on us hundreds of years later, and it's exciting and humbling at the same time to have his name in a fanfic.
> 
> But getting to the actual meat of the chapter: the Battle of Bunker Hill. Heavy influence is drawn from a book called the Glorious Rebellion. It's... I'm not sure how to categorize it but let's call it historical-documentary-fiction of the opening years of the Revolution, from how it started up to a Certain Event to be Talked About Later. Bunker Hill is done from Dr. Warren's perspective in the book, and Connor's thoughts are heavily influenced by that chapter. As always, we played much closer to history for this - however nice it might seem to dodge from one bout of cover to another and air assassinate a guy on a horse, the actual ground of the Charlestown peninsula doesn't really allow for it.
> 
> At the risk of putting too fine a point on it, it's worth noting again that the Patriots are unskilled NEWBIES. Even after all the research we cannot overstate how woefully unprepared America was for this fight. The solidarity was amazing but the experience was nonexistant, and fighting with people who aren't trained was a living nightmare for the first few years of the war. People left as quickly as they came, by a certain point Washington only has barely 5,000 troops, and his password for that fight is "victory or death" because it was literally the only options he had. It's a little amazing that we lasted as long as we did, and a freakin' miracle we actually won.
> 
> We also get to geek out because we found an excuse to mention Dorchester. That means nothing to anybody but the next time you're in AC3, go to Boston and look south. See those hills? Better yet, go to the Frontier and look out over the Boston entrance. See those hills again? Those are Dorchester Heights. Like all the other hills in the Boston area, the earth was dug out and used to fill the Back Bay (the mass body of water on the west side of the Boston map) to have more room for development. Dorchester itself is it's own subsection of Boston, and a not-small chunk of our family is from there.
> 
> And to be clear to all non-Bostonians. Dorchester is pronounced "Daw-chestah." Or "Daw-chester" if you don't want your Boston accent to be too thick. We WILL correct you.
> 
> Next chapter: New York. Like, really; we don't need to say more.


	15. New York

The sting of the defeat followed him all the way back to Rockport. Even Dr. Lyle's success with the Patriots failed to lift his mood, and when the doctor pressed on why the trip had been made in the first place, Ratonhnhaké:ton answered simply.

"To build you another reputation."

He reported back to Achilles immediately, and the Old Man had the gall to sigh in relief. "At least you lived through the encounter."

What?

_What?_

"How can you say that?" the young native demanded, heat rising his voice. "My greatest enemy, _our_ greatest enemy, was _right there_ and I could not kill him! My people are in danger as long as he lives! The _Colonies_ are in danger as long as he lives, and now he is in charge of their _army_? How can any good come from this?"

Achilles was unforgiving. "You still don't understand the consequences of your decisions," he said, papery voice thin but very strong. "This is just like Fanorora, taking one piece leads to another and another and another, but you can't see more than one or two moves ahead. So what if you killed Lee? What would happen _after_? That is what you never think about. If Charles Lee died this very day at your blade, who would learn of it? Your father, the Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite. He would come up from his plantation in Virginia and leverage the entire Templar Order on you for dealing him so vicious a blow, and he is not a man who is merciful when he takes revenge. You are not yet ready for that kind of fight."

"_Yes I am!_"

"_No you are not,_" Achilles countered, his voice lower, quieter, and suddenly very menacing. His head was dipped down, the point of his hat hiding his eyes, but Ratonhnhaké:ton could still feel the heat of the glare. "You are little more than an apprentice. It has been through sheer, unadulterated _luck_ that you have survived this long. Johnson did not know the Assassins still exist, his guard was down. Pitcairn was surrounded by a battle – something that _for once_ was advantageous to us. The others will not be so quick to die. Two Templars have died in the span of a year, both with questionable circumstances. Do you think they won't notice, that they won't be prepared for your next assault? And do _you_ think yourself ready to fight your own father? Do you?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shied away from the question.

"I thought so. Killing Lee now is too soon. Timing is everything, and I pray to God that _some day_ you'll understand that. Pitcairn was right. You are still a child."

Ratonhnhaké:ton hated the Old Man in that moment so strongly that he stormed out of the house and ran for the rest of the afternoon, pushing himself to and the past exhaustion until his energy was spent. Snow came that night and Thanksgiving was spent with Connor picking at his plate and glaring at the Old Man, unable to appreciate the bounty the women and Stephane had cooked for the village and that Oliver and Corrine served at their inn, unable to be thankful for _anything_.

December came and Connor had yet to reconcile with the Old Man, his anger too deeply linked to his childhood to let go. He was not a _child_. He had every right to kill _Charles Lee_. He burned in the frigid air and cooled only when he finally went to sea with Faulkner again; a lengthy voyage up and down the coast and stopping in the port of New Orleans, chatting with a trade man with a nervous demeanor before going back to the homestead. Connor learned that Biddle had been named a captain of the Continental Navy, and that Washington had ordered a siege of the Canadian Quebec City. In the dead of winter it was a disaster, and the new year began with a heavy quiet between the two.

It was on the way back that Connor finally saw why Faulkner had been so insistent on getting guns and officers to use them all those years ago. On previous trips Connor had taken with the old captain, it was simply going to some new harbor or port and finding traders and sailing back. Nothing eventful other than seeing new locations and meeting new people.

One morning, Connor had been climbing up and down the rigging, his best replacement for his morning run, to the amusement of the sailors up at the time. He had made it up to the crow's nest for the fifth time, where the lookout, Michael, smiled at him. "Just 'ow long you goin' ter do this?"

But Connor was not listening. He had heard his eagle screech, and he was scanning the horizon in the dawn light. Squinting, he thought he saw something off in the distance against the light of the rising sun.

"Ships," he told Michael, pointing.

"Now 'e thinks 'e's a lookout," Michael chuckled, but humored the boy by pulling out his spyglass. "Shit, there _are_ ships! You've good eyes, lad."

"Are they friend or foe?" Connor asked, anxiety welling up in him. If his eagle drew his eyes to it, they could not be friendly.

"British."

Michael rang his bell, shouting down to the crew and Connor was quickly sent back down and then below to rouse Faulkner.

Connor had never been a part of a naval battle before and he found it exhausting. When Connor hunted, he was face to face with his prey, making split-second decisions or laying a trap. His fights were never long, and even when sparring with Duncan, Clipper, Stephan, or even the Old Man on occasion, the fights rarely went longer than a half hour. Breed's Hill had been different. That had been endurance, an afternoon of fighting back redcoat advances. A naval battle, by comparison, was an eternity. First was the hours to catch up to the schooners that Connor had spotted, using every trick of wind and sail to catch to swifter ships, then it was turning to fire a volley and then another hour to get the angle and wind right to fire another volley of cannon fire. The schooners would fire back and everyone would brace, but then the schooners needed time and wind to turn and fire again. What was supposed to be broadsides were instead, often at an angle. Faulkner and the Clutterbucks were shouting orders constantly, demanding for calculations of angles for most damage, direction of wind, and so many things that Connor simply did not know of sailing.

Of the three schooners, two were simply sunk, the _Aquila_'s cannon too powerful to do anything but destroy them. But the third was boarded and Connor was at last with a battle he was familiar with. Or so he thought. Faulkner still shouted orders, but he was insistent in his loud bellow that only the captain and officers should be killed and to leave the sailors be unless they fought back. The result was that the average sailor of the schooner would fight half-heartedly while the officers and captain bellowed and prodded and in one case fired their own pistol at their own men.

Connor was introduced to a new English word after that.

Mutiny.

Faulkner was deliberately kind to the sailors once the captain and officers were killed. He and the crew of the _Aquila_ helped repair both ships, though mostly the schooner. Both ships sailed together to Kingston, selling off cargo and looking for new items.

At Kingston, Faulkner met with an American captain, a very grouchy man, who sailed a ship called the _Independence_, and was looking for a partner to sail with for protection, splitting the profits of both cargos if necessary, to ensure a contract. The man had been distrustful of Faulkner at first, given his British accent and the fact that the man was trying to ensure that American goods had a market, until Faulkner had asked Connor what it had been like at Breed's Hill and Connor had explained what it was like facing the British from the redoubt and extensions.

The voyage went smoothly until they reached the Bahamas where a few pirates were itching to land such large cargo. But both the _Independence_ and _Aquila_ were brigs with very good captains. The trickiest parts were maneuvering around the sandbars and smaller islands, but both Faulkner and the grouchy American spent the whole day sinking pirates or battering them until they fled in terror. Unlike the encounter with the British earlier, Faulkner chose not to board any of the ships, instead letting them scurry and hide.

The American captain was far less grouchy with them after that.

They ported in Charleston, South Carolina, and Connor stayed on the _Aquila_ once more, knowing he wouldn't handle the slave auctions well. Word reached Faulkner that a privateer was taking advantage of Georgia and how new it was, to try and take over the ports. So Faulkner accepted a contract to hunt down the _Somerset_.

Connor had to admit, he was ready to get back to the homestead after these naval battles. The anxiety as they waited an hour between volleys to turn and fire again left him feeling sick as he could do _nothing_.

It took almost a week to hunt down the _Somerset_, Connor up with Michael in the crow's nest and spotting her in the dark of the night. The chase went through the night, Connor's stomach in knots, and in the pre-light of dawn cannon fire started. The _Somerset_ was a well built frigate, and Faulkner spent almost the entire day circling and firing and gauging the wind. It wasn't until near dark that the _Somerset_ finally sank and Faulkner happily sailed back to Charleston to get both pay and repairs.

It was late February and Connor still didn't wish to disembark, but with the month, Connor could not quite help but remember that the Freemans had given birth a year ago. Birthdays were important, they were milestones, and Connor couldn't think of what would be appropriate for a baby only a year old.

With a heavy sigh, Connor scowled to himself and disembarked into Charleston, rented a horse, and rode out to the forests. Most of the materials he'd need would be back at the homestead, but he could construct the frame on the voyage home. He deliberately avoided any and all people, not knowing where he could find someone who _wasn't_ a slaver or someone who supported it. Once he had what he needed he returned to the _Aquila_ and started his work.

As they headed north, Faulkner insisted on stopping off at the Vineyard, which Connor was unsurprised at. Everyone stayed for a few days and Connor was fairly certain that Faulkner was staying with the Miss Mandy they'd met before. Connor could not deny the captain a chance to be with the woman he loved, but Connor had to admit, he wanted to be back at the homestead. He knew land better than water, and it would likely always be his preference to have forests surrounding him.

But Mandy also provided information. She called Connor up to her room for a private meal between her, Connor and Faulkner.

"Now," Mandy said sternly, "you stride into my bar off the piss and looking for officers a few years back." She narrowed her eyes at Faulkner. "Days later I start hearing whispers the Ghost of the North Seas stalks the Atlantic again."

Faulkner gave an awkward laugh. "Well... you see... that is..."

"We'll be discussing that _thoroughly_ later, Bobby," she said, before turning to Connor. "I know what you are. Same as him," she jutting a thumb towards Faulkner. "The point is, the _Aquila_ has returned and I need her help. Nicholas Biddle now sails for the Patriots, captaining the _Franklin_. But the man is raiding up and down the coast 'round. But no one lives long enough to point no fingers."

Both Connor and Faulkner narrowed their eyes. "We once saw Benjamin Church speaking to Biddle," Connor said softly.

"Aye," Faulkner nodded. "And Church is known to have the silver tongue when he wants. It may be..."

"That Biddle is a Templar."

"You have my thanks, Mandy," Faulkner said, eyes looking off to the distance.

Mandy frowned, then leaned over putting her face right up to Faulkner's. "I'll be expecting _quite_ the payment. _Tonight_."

Faulkner blushed brightly.

They arrived at the homestead just as March was starting, Connor still avoided the Old Man, still chaffed at how Achilles continued to treat him as a child. The other Assassins welcomed him back, glad that Connor was so much easier to study under as Achilles was the harshest taskmaster anyone had ever met. Connor laughed with them and headed into town to see how everyone was.

His first stop was the Freemans.

"Oh, Connor! Welcome back!" Prudence called, her arms full of child. Hunter blinked owlishly at him, and continued to suck his thumb.

"Hello," Connor greeted, reaching for his saddlebag. "I was thinking of your son while I was away, and I have made something for him."

"You are far too kind," Prudence replied.

Connor shook his head. "You said you named him after me, but there are many things from my childhood that are... unpleasant." Fire. Screaming. Crying. _Hatred_. "I do not know if the spirits of my people and the God of yours are the same or if they speak to one another, or how anything of the like works. But if you wish your son to model himself after me, then he will need this." He pulled out the woven circle, feathers and beads dangling. "This is a _bawaajige nagwaagan_," he said. "A dream snare, by your tongue. My people use it to protect ourselves during sleep, and we act out bad dreams to remove the bad future. This will protect your son from any ill that follows me."

Prudence nodded politely, somewhat confused, as most were when he explained his traditions and beliefs. "We will hang it above his crib."

Connor nodded. That was all he could do. There were other protective charms he could make, but he was not trained in the art.

"Thank you, Connor," Prudence said softly. "You always think of others. Do you never think of yourself?"

To that, Connor gave a small smile. "If a person sees evil and does nothing, how can that person be a human?"

Prudence gave a small laugh.

Nodding to her and wishing her and Warren well, he rode out to the main road and headed down into the village. There were a few new faces with Godfrey and Terry, likely new help for their lumber as the demand was starting to exceed what the two lumberjacks could produce. Lance was still flitting about his mill, his apprentice somehow keeping up. And Terry's son was with them as well, starting to learn the craft.

Lyle was not at his house, but that did not surprise Connor, as the doctor was often out and about helping those he could. The time helping Washington's men had improved his reputation and he could be called to nearby villages or by the Algonquin tribes who dared to try a white man's medicine. Especially the medicine of Lyle, who asked after their own healing practices to learn more.

The Miles', Ollie and Corrine, were happy to welcome him and quickly sat him down to serve him a free lunch, which Connor was not expecting.

"You need not go through the bother..."

"Oh twaddle! Of course we do," Ollie smiled warmly. "Without you, we wouldn't have this inn. You'll always get a free meal if we can wrangle you down!"

"Of course!" Corrine added brightly as she brought out a steaming bowl of stew. "You're still a growing boy, after all!"

It was work not to scowl at being called a boy, but both Miles meant it without the insult that Achilles added with his bite. Ollie sat with Connor to fill him in on what had been happening while Corrine continued to sing in the kitchen. Several new people had moved to the village, all looking for work. The Scotsmen had new hands, as Connor had noted on his ride down the hill, Lance had taken Terry's son on as an apprentice, the Freemans had a few hands to help as their farm kept growing, though it was hard to find people who were willing to work under a black family without being awkward or just rude. Ollie and Corrine were able to get some new staff to help with their bustling inn, as people realized that their homestead was a quiet port that was only a few days ride from Boston.

"So many Patriots are coming through, offering what they can for General Washington down the road."

Connor smiled. Norris and Myriam were often seen together and smiling, and there seemed to be a running betting pool on when they'd actually get married.

"Oh, they won't get married till Myriam figures out that she's a woman and not a man," Corrine said as she brought in pie. "She needs to be in the home, and once she realizes that, she'll stop her gallivanting in the woods and settle down."

"Oh dearest," Ollie interrupted, "I agree she's best in the home being a woman, but she's also bringing in the most money to town. We'd need another hunter of her skill."

"I know, sweetie, but _really_, a woman hunting?"

"My mother was one of the most skilled hunters of our village," Connor said softly, sipping his juice. "All of my people learn to hunt and while it is the men who will do so the most while the women farm, that does not mean it is absolute." Connor looked to the old couple. "I do not understand the white man's need to limit where people can work or be. If a woman is a better hunter than a man, should she not be the hunter? If man is a better farmer than a woman, should he not be the farmer?"

Ollie and Corrine looked to each other, both surprised, before both blushed brightly. "We keep forgetting you're a native, Connor," Ollie chuckled. "We're sorry for offending your sensibilities."

Connor tilted his head. "I am not offended but confused. Why is a woman only good for cooking, cleaning, or children? Why is a man better at all else? Why is the white man superior to the red man, the savage? Why is the white man superior to a black man? They are _all_ man."

Glancing at each other again, both looked away. "We've never really thought of it before," Corrine said. "It's the way it's always been."

"Yet does not the white man take pride in the great white thinkers? Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and those like them?" Connor frowned. "Yet the white man does not think as those they revere?"

Ollie chuckled. "You don't ask easy questions, my boy."

"Whether a question is easy or not does not matter-"

Suddenly, Warren burst into the tavern, shouting for help. "Mr. Miles! Mrs. Miles! Oh, Connor, I'm glad you're here!"

Connor was already standing. "Warren, what is wrong?"

"It is Norris! There was a cave in!"

Ollie let out a curse Connor hadn't known the old innkeeper knew. Connor was already rushing forward. "Warren, get the Scotsmen and any other lumberjacks who are available. Tell Lance we may need his ingenuity. Then grab any of your farmhands. Ollie, do you know where Doctor White is?"

"Uh, yes," Ollie replied. "Down near the docks making rounds."

"Retrieve him. If Norris is injured we'll need him. Corrine, get anyone at the inn who is able to come as well. Then go inform Myriam."

"Oh my, yes!"

They all separated and Connor leapt onto his horse, galloping back behind the inn to cut through the woods. He followed the river south and west until he came to the shallows that he could easily ford, even with the snow melt just starting to swell the river. The entrance to the mine looked the same as it always did, so Connor didn't know how Warren had discovered the cave in, but he found a lantern that Warren must have used and grabbed it, rushing in.

The air smelled of dust and Connor had to be careful to not breath too deeply else he'd end up sneezing and hacking. Further back, past the light of the day outside, Connor found rubble along the tunnel, rubble that had likely been shaken loose given how Norris would always clean out as much of the tunnels as he could. "So I know where I've been." Having spent a few years here, Norris was proud of how deep he'd dug and Connor, who hadn't visited the interior of the mines for many months now, was impressed with the depth as well. He could see branches that had been started then abandoned and he kept going deeper until his lantern found what he was looking for.

"Norris! _Norris_!"

There was indeed quite the cave in. Rocks and boulders were strewn into a pile where the upper ceiling of the cave had given way. There was just the barest of openings. Connor hastily climbed up, pushing his lantern as close as he could as the opening was too small to push it through. "Norris!"

"Ah," came a cough. "Connor," was a weak sound. "It seems I am _la mademoiselle_ once again, _non_?"

"Help is coming!" Connor shouted. "Hold on!"

What to do, what to do!

Connor raced back out to the entrance and opened Norris's supply shack, pulling out all the lanterns he could and lighting them, placing them along the path. The mine cart that Norris used was nowhere to be seen and was either buried under the rubble, or on the other side of the cave in. So Connor led his black mare in. Hauling such weight would not be her best usage, but she was all he had. He would send Warren back for his draft horses, maybe Godfrey's as well.

People started to arrive, starting with Godfrey and Terry, along with their three new lumberjacks that Connor had not yet met. "One of you! Get your draft horses!"

One of the newcomers left as they all hurried in with Connor and his mare.

"Sweet mother of Jesus!" someone shouted.

Connor opened his saddlebags. "Loose rock and shale! We need to remove that first or else we will trip and stumble." And it would be easier on his horse for starting what would be a long, hard day.

It took an hour to get rid of most of the loose rock given the smaller size of Connor's saddlebags, and someone found a wheelbarrow which was helping to speed things along. Lance finally arrived in his wagon, with all sorts of tools that he might need depending on the situation. The group had swelled from Connor and the five lumberjacks to close to twenty people. Everyone brought something they thought could be used, be it a wagon to carry rocks, shovels or axes, to several horses to help haul. They ended up with so much material that much had to be sent back as there just wasn't the room.

Connor directed the work, but Lance was the engineer giving orders. He understood weight distribution the best with how he needed to craft furniture, shelves, or ships, if need be, and knew what had to be dealt with care else something shift to catastrophic. He barked out orders if anyone was moving a rock or boulder they shouldn't and guided almost every cut to where it would do the most good.

"The problem is that I can't see his side," Lance whispered to Connor. "I'm making guesses."

"Guesses based on experience and knowledge are better than guesses on none."

The worry and panic had settled into grim determination. As darkness fell many of the women came with a wagon laden down with food and fresh clothes. But as darkness fell, Connor realized that they would not be able to free Norris that day. Finally, after full dark fell, he called a halt.

"We will do no good if we keep working ourselves to exhaustion."

"Then we take shifts!" Terry shouted.

Connor shook his head sadly. "We may take shifts to keep Norris company, but Lance is the only one who understands how to excavate him. We must let him rest."

Lance shook his head. "Don't stop on my account."

"We must," Connor insisted. "If you are too tired, you will make a mistake, then more of us will be buried." And possibly killed, but Connor left that unsaid. "Has anyone found Myriam?"

"No," Corrine replied with a hitch in her breath. "She must be out farther in the woods because her camp is cold. Has been for a week or so, I'd say."

Connor locked his jaw and frowned. He would _not_ lose a friend. Not like this. They all deserved better. "We will be back at first light. Lance, how long do you think until Lyle can get through and check on Norris?"

Lance shook his head again. "I can't tell something like that! Every rock we move changes the weight distribution and I need to check everything all over again. Especially the bigger rocks! I work with wood, not stone, I can't tell how long I'll take for anything!" Tears welled up in the carpenter's eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm just not good enough at this! I'm sorry, Norris! You need better than me!"

Lyle frowned heavily, then stepped forward and examined the opening.

They were all making plans for the following day when Warren let out a shout and everyone watched Lyle scrambling up the boulders and squeezing through the narrow opening.

"Doctor! What are you doing!" Warren shouted.

Lyle did not reply as he exhaled as much air as he could and pushed further in.

"Doctor!"

With Lyle's mind set to the task, none could talk to or dissuade him, so people started to help with pushing the doctor through. Christopher, Lance's apprentice fetched the doctor's bag and pushed it through, letting it slide down on the other side. Michael, from Faulkner's crew, pushed through a lantern and held it there.

Finally Lyle was through with a soft "Omph!" The lantern was taken from Michael and Lyle called for another. Three more lanterns were pushed through and everyone waited as Lyle started assessing things.

"It's a bad knock to the head," Lyle finally said. "Broken leg, maybe a rib as well, and malnourishment. Food! I need to get him to eat."

"But I am not hungry, doctor," they heard Norris mumble.

Food was swiftly passed through, along with wood for a splint, but they would need a stretcher to get him out which meant they'd need a wider opening.

"In the morning," Connor insisted. "When we are rested and ready."

"I'll stay with Norris," Lyle called through the hole. "I'd say we keep a person or two here through the night in case we need anything."

"That is the best course of action."

"Oh, and Lance?" Lyle called. A piece of paper was passed through the long narrow hole. On it was a sketch of what the other side of the collapse looked like. The carpenter smiled brightly.

When Connor returned to the manor, Achilles demanded to know what the hell was going on, growled on why he wasn't told, then grunted something negative before retiring. Connor ignored the bad mood, though it still chafed at his being treated like a child, and spent another hour planning how to divide everyone the following day to best tackle the cave in. He didn't get to bed till some time past one a.m., completely exhausted.

His sleep was incredibly light, and he awoke to the grey before dawn and hurried downstairs to have a very fast breakfast, knowing most of the day would likely be dedicated to getting Norris out. Down at the mine, Connor was surprised to see Achilles already there, calmly directing everyone with the quiet dignity he always showed when he wasn't in a foul mood.

"Ah, Connor. Nice of you to come."

Connor scowled, but headed inside. Lance was already directing people, and it seemed that several had foregone dinner and breakfast in order to get skinny enough to slip through to the other side like Lyle had done the previous night.

"How are things?" Connor asked.

"Slow progress," Lance replied. "They're clearing rubble and shale on the other side so that they have a good workspace and then we can start looking at the larger boulders."

"And Norris?"

"Awake, sore, hungry, and grumbling that Lyle even has to treat him." Lance said, though his smile was a little too bright.

Connor narrowed his eyes.

Lance sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Norris is not... all there. He randomly rambles in French and none of us have a clue what he's saying, even Stephane."

Connor locked his jaw.

Given his powerful frame, he could not slip through as others had done, so he held his anxiety tight in his chest and helped with moving the larger rocks once the drays were harnessed.

Progress was slow, tedious, and backbreaking. It wasn't until four hours later that Connor, Godfrey, and a few others, with the horses heaving, finally moved a boulder that caused another mini collapse. Everyone fell to the ground, covering their heads as the horses started and screamed, pulling and straining to get away.

Once everything was quiet, everyone started to get up, coughing against the dust and fine, rocky powder.

"Is everyone all right?" Connor called out. "Lance?"

There was a light, hacking cough. "Fine, Connor."

"Godfrey?"

"Me and the knob-ends are fine."

Connor coughed. "Doctor?"

"A moment..." There were mutterings in the darkness before Lyle responded. "We seem well, if bruised. Though I could use some light to know for certain."

Blinking, Connor realized that there was no more light. The lanterns had been knocked over and broken under the collapse.

From further up the tunnel, lights started to approach, along with many shouted inquiries.

"We are well, but we need light!" Connor called, standing and already feeling the bruises along his back from the falling debris and shale.

Terry and Warren rushed forward, each holding a lantern high. "What happened?"

Lance gave a coughing laugh. "Progress," he replied and smiled.

Everyone turned to see that the narrow opening that they had so painstakingly opened over the course of an afternoon the previous day, was now wider.

Much wider.

Wide enough for a man to easily crawl through.

"Buckets!" Connor shouted. "We need to remove the shale to have a clear walk space. Someone get the stretcher, we'll be able to pull Norris out now! And we need more light!"

Activity swirled after that, and within an hour, Lyle had let everyone on the other side go to get out of the tunnel, and let fresh people in to help him carefully get Norris into a stretcher, and then heft him over the rocks.

"Careful! I won't know what other injuries he has until I can examine him in proper daylight!"

Everyone cheered when Norris was finally brought out to the snowy cliffside, and were quick to huddle around the Frenchman. But Lyle pushed them aside, intent on getting to a wagon and back to his home so that he could do a more thorough examination.

Most headed to the tavern and both Ollie and Corrine broke out their best wine to celebrate. Connor merely let out a soft sigh of relief, glad that Norris was free and certain that Lyle could heal him. Achilles looked on stoically, and merely nodded to himself before heading back to the manor. Connor stayed at the mine, cleaning up what he could so that Norris didn't have a monstrous task when he finally returned, and then he headed to the Miles End to celebrate with the others, even if he did not partake in the alcohol.

Connor checked with Lyle daily, on his way back to the manor after his morning runs, and Norris still faded out of it from time to time, but was improving every day. Including being cranky about being laid up. Both Lyle and Connor smiled at this, relieved after the uncertainty of if the French miner could even have been saved or not.

It was the following week when Myriam finally returned to her main camp, her horse piled down with furs, and was quickly rushed to Lyle's home.

"What _happened_?" she all but screamed upon seeing Norris's beaten frame.

She finally got the story of Warren making a milk delivery to find his previous delivery untouched and had investigated the mine to find the cave in. The entire story of the rescue came out, leaving Myriam in tears and swearing up and down that she would _never_ leave like that again. She also shouted long and loudly at Norris that he _needed_ extra help down in the mines and it was about time he got it.

Connor left them to figure things out after that. With that bit of excitement done, he would be glad to return to normal.

With March finally progressing as normal, news started to come in from Boston. Apparently, while Connor and the rest of the village were trying to free Norris, Commander Washington had brought cannon to bear on Boston. After a week of trading shots and maneuvering, the British had finally evacuated Boston on March 17, retreating to Castle William in the harbor. People were still hesitant to return to Boston, afraid that the British might surge forth again, but there was still much cheering that the ragtag American forces had managed to _push_ the British _out_ of their city. Washington was already starting repairs, and rumors were wild of the damage that the British had done, including chopping down something called the Liberty Tree; turning the Old South Meeting Hall, where so much of the work of the Sons of Liberty had taken place in public meetings, debates, motions, committees, and so forth, had been turned into a _stable_ for _horses_. Much work needed to be done to rebuild Boston and clean out the refuse and abuse that the British had left behind, but the longer the British remained stuck at Castle William, the more confident the citizens became in returning and starting the momentous task.

Connor frowned heavily at this and debated visiting Boston as well to see what he could do to help, but he had been at sea for so long, he felt the need to stay at the homestead and start searching for the Templars, the _atenenyarhu,_ again. Church, who had been under arrest in Connecticut, had been released when he'd fallen ill, though he could move under guard, and Connor no longer knew where the man was. Lee was but a few days ride away with Commander Washington, but was so visible Connor knew he would have no way to strike, though that _hurt_ to leave Lee be.

With Church missing and Lee unattainable, that left Hickey and his father.

Connor scowled. His father...

No, Hickey would be his next target.

Achilles had known that Hickey was Haytham Kenway's connection to the underworld, to thieves, blackmailers, brutes. This meant that Connor was going to have to make connections with the underworld himself. A prospect he did not relish. Duncan had the most contacts in Boston and so Duncan returned to the abused city to try and make contact with those of less reputable standing. But the population of Boston had changed drastically. When Duncan had lived there, Tories and Patriots had lived together in the city, even if it wasn't with much pleasure. When the British shut down the harbor, the Patriots had fled, not wanting a British musket or bayonet to find them and Tories who were scared of Patriot neighbors had fled to Boston. Now it was the reverse. Tories were fleeing, either back to England or to New York or other parts of the colonies, and the Patriots were returning in force. Anyone Duncan knew was gone.

It was frustrating.

Connor either had to find Hickey or find Church, and both were being elusive, either from just not existing, as Hickey did, or surrounded by guards, as Church was. What Connor needed was more Assassins to send out and search.

He was in the root cellar, staring at the paintings and turning options over in his mind. His glare darkened, and his frame tensed as his anxiety kept bubbling forward. Could he find Hickey? Should he go after Church or Lee with the difficulties therein?

"How fares the hunt, Connor?" came the papery voice of Achilles as the Old Man stepped forward. Oddly he did not have his cane with him, but Connor did not ask. He still wasn't very happy with the Old Man.

Connor frowned. He couldn't say that he was getting nowhere. "There is progress," with Duncan in Boston and searching, "but I worry it is not enough."

Achilles stared at the portraits as well. "You must strike where you're needed most," he said. "You're considering going after Lee or Church. But then, what of Paul Revere? And the soldiers you aided at Lexington last year? Or Breed's Hill? Would you abandon their progress?"

Connor refused to glare at the Old Man. He would _not_ give him the satisfaction. "_Soldiers_?" he spat instead. "There were no soldiers in those towns – only men and women who were forced to defend themselves. Even at Breed's Hill, they were all terrified of the British approach. Only officers like Prescott were able to help them fight back."

Achilles glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Is this not why you fight? To protect your people? To be the officer who helps others fight back? To be the one who fights back so that others don't have to?" Achilles pursed his lips. "Your struggle is the colonist's struggle. In helping one, you help the other." The Old Man turned and stalked to the stairs, letting the bite of his voice hang in the cool cellar air.

Connor frowned, glancing from side to side, his anxiety still bubbling and raging within him, until he turned and stomped forward.

"Encouraging words from one who thought mine a fool's errand," he growled. "From one who has labeled me child and refuses to support what I do. What must I do with such encouragement? Me, a fool who does a fool's errand?"

Achilles paused on the step and offered a cold smile and dark chuckle. "Make no mistake, I still do." He shrugged. "But I can't help but feel some pride in your success."

Connor still refused to glare at the Old Man, instead glaring at the floor. "And why should I give _you_ any credit?" he bit out.

The Old Man replied quickly. "Then don't. But first, return the robe. And the blades. And the darts. And all the years of training and knowledge I have bestowed upon you. Return these and then your words may have some merit." And he continued calmly up the stairs.

Connor snarled in the cellar, unable to contain his anxiety, and then surged forward, following the Old Man to the kitchen. "Or you could just admit that you were wrong!"

"Oh child, please," Achilles didn't even hide his contempt. "You've killed two men. One more salesmen than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me." He poured tea into two cups, adding sugar to one and cream to another.

"Is that _so_, Old Man?" Connor growled back. "I will be twenty by the end of the week, yet still you call me child. Perhaps we should step outside? I will gladly demonstrate how easily I could tr-" Connor paused as he saw Achilles hand a teacup to another man, the same age as Connor, who had been calmly listening to the growing argument, "trounce... you..."

Connor _refused_ to let his cheeks burn.

Achilles continued on as if nothing had happened. "Connor, this is Benjamin Tallmadge. His father was one of us, no need for secrecy." He calmly sipped his tea. "I think he has something he wants to say."

Tallmadge calmly sipped his tea as well, leaning back to the chair. He was in uniform, crested helmet on the table. Connor stood, paralyzed between the dining room and the kitchen, before edging his way to the table and taking another chair.

Not next to Achilles.

"Achilles tells me you're looking for a Thomas Hickey?"

"Yes," Connor replied steadily. If none of them was to act like the prior argument had happened, he would as well. He wrestled with his anxiety and pushed it down. He hadn't known that other Assassins existed, or that children of them had survived. "But I have only false starts and dead ends to show for it."

"Not anymore," Tallmadge replied with a cheery smile. "I've had my eye on him. And I aim to help you catch him."

Connor gave a predatory grin. "How?"

"I'll explain on the way. You and I are going to New York."

Connor spent the rest of the day packing. He told Clipper and Stephane to stay with the Old Man, and Connor would call for them if the lead that Tallmadge was providing actually _lead_ somewhere. Faulkner was already out at sea again, no surprise there, but Connor and Tallmadge paid to go by another ship, heading to Greenwich, Connecticut. Tallmadge, it seemed, had a lot of connections in Connecticut, including Nathan Hale, a classmate at Yale from much farther north in Coventry. But where Tallmadge had the most connections was in New York City itself, including a childhood friend he would only name Abe, and a Tory had made Tallmadge forswear ever giving his name.

"A Tory is your friend?"

"Always a good way to get information. Besides, the British don't always treat him well."

Tallmadge himself was one of the commanders under Commander Washington, and was working to become Washington's chief spy.

"That's part of the reason I'm gathering all these connections. So I can better serve General Washington and our country. Especially now that he's in New York."

Indeed, after the British had evacuated Boston, Washington had stayed long enough to stabilize things, organize militia, and then marched his army to New York, saying that the Tory stronghold would be where the British would next strike. At Tallmadge's urging, Washington had selected upwards of 150 guards both for himself, his documents, and, most importantly, the army's pay. Thomas Hickey was part of this unit.

Connor locked his jaw as anxiety swelled. Hickey had been _right under his nose_, just two day's ride away, and he never even knew it.

"My enemy... _Our_ enemy, the Templars, are tenacious," he observed to Tallmadge as they leaned over the rail of their ship to Greenwich. "When money failed them, as it did Johnson, they took to force, as Johnson did, and as Pitcairn did."

Except they didn't. Johnson wanted to talk and Pitcairn had claimed he wished to talk, even as he led troops. Connor shook his head.

"But I have slain both, ending their plots."

"And with General Washington rallying the colonists and having headed to New York, he now makes a target," Tallmadge nodded. "I have learned that it is likely the Templars wish him dead. And Hickey is placed far too close to the General for my liking."

Connor nodded. "The Templars seek to reshape this land into something cold and ordered. Something soulless. And the Commander is an obstacle. We must save him, that his cause, _our_ cause can flourish and my people remain safe. But-"

Connor's anxiety welled within his chest and he locked his jaw.

"But?"

"The more I prod, the greater the chance I am discovered." Connor let out a heavy sigh. "The Templars believe their men lost to the revolution. In their eyes the Assassins are gone and have been for decades. That we are no longer a threat. But I fear they will soon discover the truth and me along with it. I must tread carefully..."

Tallmadge smiled. "Given that you _are_ an Assassin, and the greatest strength of _any_ Assassin is hiding in plain sight, I'm not too worried."

Connor gave a wan smile, but he still worried. New York was a city he did not know. Boston, Lexington, Concord, much of Massachusetts and upstate New York where his people resided, he knew very well. But this Tory city he did not. He did not know the back alleys or the hiding places. Caution would be his greatest ally, and he would have to be most careful indeed.

"You are not an Assassin. So what is your stake in all this?"

"Same as yours," Tallmadge replied. "Peace. Stability. A land in which all might live side by side, free and equal."

Connor raised a brow. "If your goals are the same, why not join the Brotherhood, then?"

"My father was an Assassin," Tallmadge replied, a wistful smile on his face as he looked out to the clouds. "And a clergyman, just to make it more confusing. Quite good at his job, too, as I understand it. Achilles was proud of him." The man sighed. "But... I hope to have children some day. My father died when I was but a toddler, and I won't leave any children I have alone like that. It's hard to live in two worlds at the same time. So I choose to live in one."

"I understand," Connor replied, even though he didn't. For him, being an Assassin had been his destiny, laid out by Iottsitíson. He was not a part of two worlds, merely one. The reason for it being secret was simple. One did not reveal oneself to the prey. But Tallmadge wishing to avoid most of the danger in favor for a family he might have... that Connor _could_ understand. That was like so many of his people who would talk about the problem of the white man rather than facing it.

Tallmadge continued talking. "I still contribute as I can, such as contacting Achilles about Hickey. It's why we're here now."

"And why do you hunt him?"

"He's a scoundrel," Tallmadge replied flatly. "He's supposed to be one of the General's guards, but he spends his time gambling, whoring, and he's recently started to dabble in counterfeiting. If he's caught, the General's hard work at pulling the army together will be ruined."

"You need not worry," Connor replied. "Thomas Hickey will die."

After docking at Greenwich, a mere forty miles from New York, both got horses and crossed over to the northern woods and farmland of the island. Riding south down the island, it approached nightfall and they sped up to get to the city proper.

"Connor," Tallmadge said softly. "I worry. There has been a rumor that Hickey might be up to something else. But I haven't been able to uncover what."

"It will not matter if he is in prison or dead."

Tallmadge chuckled. "No, I suppose not. Now let's go meat my friend Abraham Woodhull."

They rode down to the Royal Exchange House where Woodhull was awaiting them at a tavern across the street. Built originally as a one-story building in 1675 to convert from an open-air market to something that could handle a New England winter, the building had been rebuilt in 1752 to the two-story building with cupola it now was. The first story remained a market place, but the second story was used primarily for social gatherings and meetings. It was the marketplace that was more interesting, as it was an ideal place to get counterfeit money out to the people.

Once in the tavern, Tallmadge easily strode over to the man he saw instantly with a wide smile.

"Hello Benjamin."

"Hello Abraham."

Woodhull raised a brow at Connor, but Tallmadge only smiled.

"Found the distributor, just not Hickey yet. Can't prove anything." Woodhull's eyes flicked to a tall white man, tricorn hat titled back and brown stubble across his chin.

"My thanks, my old friend."

Woodhull only nodded.

Connor and Tallmadge both ordered a drink in the full tavern, discreetly eyeing the counterfeiter as Woodhull left, and observed for most of the evening. It wasn't until much later that another man came and sat by the counterfeiter.

"Daniel! Let me buy you a drink!"

The man named Daniel was bald under his tricorn, and scowling fiercely. "Don't bother. Almost got caught last time, don't you remember?"

"I haven't been caught!" the counterfeiter chuckled. "'Sides, we've got most everything we need for the job, anyway."

"The poison's finally come in?"

"Paid a pretty counterfeit for it!"

Daniel scowled. "Then we strike tonight."

The counterfeiter laughed again. "He worried about the guards? He's one of them! We been so careful not even the devil knows our plans."

"Can't believe we're really gonna do this," Daniel muttered. "I'm for a quick coin, but this..."

The counterfeiter slapped him on the back, still laughing. "We'll be heroes! The ones who ended all this talk of revolution. They'll set us up like kings, they will."

Daniel scoffed. "_Hmph!_ Revolution. Bunch a' trouble makers lookin' to upset the apple-cart 'cos some fool filled their heads with rubbish. Ruinin' it for the rest of us good folk."

"Good folk? Us? Really?"

Daniel finally offered a tight smile. "Of course! You and me and Hickey? Just some hard-luck lads tryin' to survive this cold, cruel world."

Tallmadge was shaking to contain himself, and Connor put a hand to the would-be spy's shoulder. "They plan to kill."

"And I can take a _very_ educated guess as to _who_."

"So we must stop them."

When the two plotters stood moments later, so did Tallmadge and Connor.

The evening was getting on, and many were starting to head home from the taverns, pubs, and coffee houses, so it was easy for Connor and Tallmadge to blend with the crowds and follow the unknowing conspirators. Connor stayed to the streets, not having a quick way to climb to the roofs and unfamiliar with what he'd find up there. Tallmadge stayed further back, and the winding paths of the mercenaries kept both Connor and Tallmadge hiding in shadows when cutting through backyard gardens and alleys.

It wasn't until they turned onto a road, nearing the tip of the peninsula, that the two finally entered a printing shop. Wall Street was named by the Dutch settlers for a wall on the northern side of the street when it was the original boundary of the settlement. The story went that the native peoples of the island of Manhattan had made a peace treaty with the Dutch governor, had even shared a _hoboken_, a peace pipe and, in incomprehensible settler logic, the governor responded by massacring the entire native population. Those that lived spread the word of the forked tongue of the white settlers, and a double palisade was erected to protect against the savages. By 1699 the fortifications had been removed and the walled street had become a market place for buying and selling bonds, renting out slaves by the day or the week, etc. It was the named the first official slave market in 1711 – both African and native, to Ratonhnhaké:ton's disgust, and the market was held at the corner of Wall and Pearl Streets. The buttonwood tree at the end of the street was where marketers would trade securities.

On this busy street was Federal Hall: built in 1700 as the second city hall of New York and had it's own storied history. In 1735 a newspaperman was arrested for printing liable against the Royal Governor and tried there, where he was famously acquitted because what he printed was true. Some years ago in 1765 it was the location where nine of the colonies met to determine their reaction to the Stamp Act, where a strongly worded letter was written to King George, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons, discussing taxation without representation that Sam Adams had argued so passionately about. Across the street was a nondescript printing shop, invisible in the bustle of what would be a busy marketplace.

Tallmadge hurried up to Connor. "We must get some guards, or the General's men."

"The city patrols will be easier to find," Connor replied. "Have you a whistle?"

"Of course."

"Then that is how you will find them," Connor looked to the shop. "I will go inside and apprehend them. Even if we cannot prove the plot against the Commander, we should be able to prove the counterfeiting." It _was_ a print shop after all. And if Connor could kill everyone and slip away before Tallmadge brought reinforcements, all the better.

"Good luck," Tallmadge said softly. "Maybe some day you can have a family as well."

Connor only nodded.

Tallmadge backtracked down an alley, so that it would not be obvious that his whistle was right outside the print shop. Connor stalked forward, the shadows concealing him as he circled around to the back of the shop. Silence would be his best weapon, so he pulled out his _tamahac_ and twirled it in his fist.

The door was locked, so Connor crouched down, pulling out his lockpicks. He was aware of the darkness and the silence, making him feel almost like he was floating in nothingness. But then Tallmadge whistled again in the distance.

The lock gave, and Connor quietly crept in, aware that wood would creak if he was not careful. He had entered a back storage room, and he simply stayed still, listening and feeling. There was a chuckle, the counterfeiter from before. Down.

Connor crept along to the door on the far wall. One lead to the main part of the shop. The other lead down to the cellar. Slowly easing the door open, he saw the flicker of candlelight below.

It was agonizing going so slow on each step, measuring his balance and staying as close to the wall as possible to avoid creaking. Inch by inch, bit by bit. Listening to the three conspirators down below. Two voices he recognized, one he didn't.

_Hickey_.

Don't rush. _Don't_ rush.

After what felt like hours, Connor at last reached the bottom of the steps. From the voices he'd been listening to, he knew that the bald Daniel would be the first to die. Hickey sounded the furthest, so Connor would have to work swiftly. The anxiety in him was building, threatening to burst forth, but Connor locked his jaw, set his shoulders, and took a silent breath.

He surged forward, his _tamahac_ burying itself into the back of Daniel, killing him instantly. Hickey and the other conspirator both stared, completely caught by surprise, and Connor used that instant to assess. No other exits. He _had_ them. But the large counterfeit press was between them. The nameless conspirator was next, Connor grabbing his arm and spinning him, his _tamahac_ once more tasting blood as it sliced into the man's throat. He turned swiftly to face Hickey, but instead found a drawer full of printing materials being used as a club against him.

All of those bits of metal in a drawer were heavier than Connor anticipated, and by bringing up his arm, his _tamahac_ was knocked down to be lost in the drawer and the bits of letters. Connor did not wish to draw onlookers for his escape, the pistol was out of the question, and the rope dart was too long to be used in such a confined space. Hickey had backed away, using the printing press itself to stay between them. That would block any poison darts. A knife perhaps, but Connor was still between Hickey and the door.

With a grim smile, Connor flicked his hand and grabbed his knife. His _hidden blade_.

Hickey narrowed his eyes. "Ain't s'poosed to be none of your kind left," he growled. "Suppose I'd best be rectifyin' that, then."

They both shuffled, trying to get advantage with the printing press between them. There was a loud crash above and thundering steps.

The patrols. Connor withdrew his hidden blade, hiding once again in his nature.

"You are both under arrest!" one of the patrol shouted.

Connor frowned heavily. Where was Tallmadge?

"Ah well," Thomas said lightly, his hands up, "we were just havin' a scrap, officer! Ain't nuttin' wrong with two men settlin' their differences the ol' fashi'n way. Can't we come to-"

"Quiet!" Connor shouted, refusing to take his eyes off the Stone Coat before him. "What are the charges?"

"Murder," the patroller replied. "Counterfeiting."

_No_, Connor couldn't believe how this had gone wrong! Where was Tallmadge?

"I had nothing to do with that, I-"

"Course not," was the coarse reply.

"_Listen_," Connor growled, still glaring at Hickey, who was just _feet away from him_, "there are more important things at stake here. This man is planning to-" but there was a crack, something against Connor's head, and he fell down, everything fading once more to darkness, just like how this encounter started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say. Well, actually there'll be a lot to say, but it's all going to be in the next chapter. This one's just a bridge from one memory to the other.
> 
> We were able to cover a couple of the sailing missions, though in reality most of those adventures are Faulkner out on his own. Did anybody notice Gerald from Liberation? We also see Connor trying to avoid reacting to slaver and under the mistaken belief that everyone had something to do with the slave trade; in truth only the rich could afford slaves, but for Connor even the silent consent that something like slavery is even allowed is tantamount to sin for him: his motto is, "If a person sees evil and does nothing, how can they be a person?" Also note that he once again shies away from thinking about Haytham. That's about to come back and bite him.
> 
> On the homestead front we have Norris and his little problem. This is a small preview of how successful this community is shaping up to be, because everyone came to help the miner no one ever sees. We also start to see the strain of the relationship between Achilles and Connor. It's only the start, however, it will of course get worse over time. More on that later.
> 
> And we finally get to New York. We changed the introduction of Hickey slightly - after Connor's monologue about being careful it doesn't make sense he would callously break into a house and show off his hidden blade, so we reworked it slightly and placed it around a printing press.
> 
> Next chapter: Our betas gleefully tell us how tense everything is, and then OMG I KNOW WHAT THIS IS, at the end of the chapter.


	16. Death of a Person

"_For all that you consider yourself an adult you are still a child...__"_

"_When your mother was murdered a piece of yourself froze in fear, and even now it has not melted, and you've yet to understand that you cannot grow until you move on..._"

"_Don't be a child, boy..._"

"_You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child._"

"_You still don't understand the consequences of your decisions..._"

"_You are not yet ready for that kind of fight._"

"_Pitcairn was right. You are still a child._"

"_Oh child, please, you've killed two men. One more salesmen than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me._"

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, his head pounding and his stomach threatening to explode for the nausea he felt. He drifted off again.

He awoke again, some time later, wishing he was not in his own body.

The third time he woke, he realized he was not in the longhouse, and he couldn't understand why. Where was _Ista_?

And then, at last, he remembered what happened. Tallmadge, the whistle, the quest for footing around the printing press, Hickey, and guards that did not understand what was going on. Ratonhnhaké:ton groaned, deep in his throat, as he realized how badly he had failed. Why had Tallmadge not come? Were the guards that arrived his? Or a random patrol looking for trouble? Why had they been so belligerent as to not listen to him, so violent as to knock him out? And... where was he?

At last he cracked his eyes open, smell turning his stomach and filth surrounding every inch of him. His vision swam, his head was _pounding_, but he slowly worked himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his temple where he had been struck and trying to stop the world from spinning. He realized dimly that his coat and equipment were gone, his pistols and knives and even his hidden blades had been bereft of him. Even his moccasins were lost; his toes curled in the cool April air, and he realized belatedly that someone had left a window open. Confused, he turned and looked up to see a thin, narrow window, but no glass to block the chilly air. Only...

Only bars.

Bewildered, Ratonhnhaké:ton stood slowly, allowing time for his vision to dim and brighten as blood rushed to his head, and looked to the bars, putting his hands around them, tugging slightly, trying to comprehend what sort of construct he was in. He turned slowly, seeing that the door to the tiny room he was in was not made of oak or hickory or even pine, but of more metal bars, and beyond were more doors of metal. Blinking, still confused and slightly dizzy, he focused instead on his room, seeing the small, lumpy mattress he had been sleeping on and the excuse for a pillow, and a pail by it that stank of...

Ratonhnhaké:ton nearly threw up on the spot. Was he expected to _use_ that? No outhouse?

He moved to the door of bars, tugging at them as he had the window, trying to fathom where he was. What kind of place was this? He could hear voices beyond, dissonant and numerous, creating a dull noise that was distracting. Then he heard a terrified, bloody scream, so loud and so close his blood shivered at the sound. Achilles never spoke of such a place, a building filled with rooms made of bars, sounds so terrible and smells so foul as to drive a person sick. Nausea overtook him, and he rushed back to the pail, but there was nothing in his stomach and he could only manage dry heaves. Spent after the ordeal, he collapsed loosely on the mattress, and was again unconscious.

The next time he woke he returned to his senses much more quickly. His head felt better, slightly, and the dizziness and nausea were both greatly reduced.

He sat cross-legged on the mattress, thinking hard as he tried to rub at his hands and arms, hoping to scrub away the grime and filth on him, trying to pretend he felt clean. He moved to his face, but felt several tender bruises and cuts, one under his eye and another at his temple. His lip had been split at some point, and he felt and found other bruises littering his body. He had been beaten while he was unconscious. Why? What ceremony could entail such cruelty?

But even as his current situation horrified him, another thought filled him with fear. What of Hickey? Washington? Had the Templar plot succeeded, was the new head of the Patriot army dead, fledgling rebels now leaderless and without hope? What of Tallmadge? Had he been captured; was he, too, in this miserable place?

"What are you lookin' at, half-breed?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, to see a man just as he banged on the door, face twisted into something ugly, contemptuous. The bars rattled, startled sounds murmuring beyond the walls where Ratonhnhaké:ton could not see.

"Where am I?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, "Why am I here?"

The man scoffed. "I knew savages was dumb, but you're a different piece of idiot all together. Were you the village idiot? All your savage squaws pity you, feed you scraps to survive? The bitch is always to blame."

"You speak in error," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, shocked to hear such brutal language. "I am no idiot and I do not know the word 'squaws.' No one was fed-"

"Shut up, redskin," the man said. "No one cares." He rattled the bars again and left, down a narrow hallway and batting at other bars, other cages. Yes, Ratonhnhaké:ton was in a cage, like pigs in a sty or chickens in a coup. The people here, they were treated as animals. Animals! Was the depravity of the white man truly so limitless? How much lower could the Europeans go in how they treated each other? Did they have no respect for one another? Was their desperate desire for money truly so consuming as to treat brothers as this? Were the slaves down south treated like this? Pressed into cages and left to live in filth and feces? Who could even conceive of such a horror?

"Never 'eard of a prison?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton stilled, recognizing the voice, the grating accent. He spun his gaze to the side, pressing his face as close to the bars as he could, looking to his right to see a pair of equally filthy hands, hanging loosely, even casually, from the bars.

"You," he said softly, emotions warring in his chest, his heart deciding what it meant and what to feel.

"You miss me, swee'art?" Thomas Hickey asked.

But Ratonhnhaké:ton realized the weight of this, and his silence was for once not born of tension, but rather relief. He stared at the pale hands, so casual even in a cage, glared at them indignantly even as he was glad to see them _here_ instead of elsewhere.

"Wot? Nothin' to say?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton spoke the simple truth. "If you are here, then Washington is safe."

"True, true," Hickey said, acknowledging the point calmly. There was no malice in his voice, no contempt or arrogance, only a sly grin. "Thing is... I believe I'll be pardoned."

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand those words. Pardoned? As in to excuse oneself? Pardon me? Or was there something else? He spent the night, cross-legged on the moldy floor, searching his mind of the lessons of Achilles, and his strict adherence to details. Sam Adams, too, had spoken of pardons... Yes, to do with the justice system. A complicated mess of laws that confused a fifteen-year-old Ratonhnhaké:ton daily as Achilles tried to explain debtors prisons, jails, royal pardons, lawyers, litigation, defense and prosecution. Words and phrases that whistled right over the child's head, so convinced was he that his sacred duty given to him in his vision would absolve him of having to deal with something so complicated. Ratonhnhaké:ton had understood that all of these rules would never apply to him if he was simply not caught.

Now he regretted his lapse in study, lamented how childish he had been at the time.

"_For all that you consider yourself an adult you are still a child..._"

Achilles' words echoed in his mind, and for a brief moment he saw himself as Achilles did: obstinate, stubborn, naïve of the white man's world and unwilling to learn all the nuances necessary to live in it. Ratonhnhaké:ton was proud of his life at the village, proud of his traditions and perennially confused at the way of the white man. He was a _native_ first and foremost, but only now was he beginning to realize that he was, in some ways, just as arrogant at the white man, to believe himself and his culture better than that of the Colonists and always pushing to explain himself to others, to make others understand that people were people, and that the only thing that was lacking was understanding.

As another scream erupted from somewhere, echoing off the granite walls, as a second guard spat slurs at him, Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that not everyone _cared_ about the lack of understanding; he realized some of them were perfectly content to _hate_.

He would never understand it. Ever.

But for the first time, he realized that he would have to accept it.

He burned all night with that revelation.

Uncomfortable with his thoughts, he stared at the cell wall, knowing that Hickey was on the other side. Was Hickey like that? Content to hate? Was his father? Charles Lee _thrived_ on hate, that much was obvious, but were the Stone Coats all so depraved? Why did they act as they did? Why did Pitcairn speak of parlay with Sam Adams and Hancock, why were they trying to delay the rebellion? Why did they want Warraghiyagey to buy up Haudenosaunee land? Achilles spoke of the subtlety of the Templars, but perhaps now, with Hickey just as trapped as he was, there was a way to cut through the veil.

Uncomfortable in the filth, uncomfortable with his revelations, uncomfortable with his thoughts, he turned his attention to the invisible man beyond the cell. "I want answers," he said, voice soft but dangerous. "Why did Johnson try and buy my people's land? Why was Pitcairn targeting Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why does your Order support the _British_?"

He heard a scoff, almost a laugh, before there was a response.

" 'ow should I know?" he countered. "The Templars. Lee. The big man, 'aytham. They 'as the money. They 'as the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em. That's the _only_ reason. Sure, they 'ave some sort of vision, for the future too. I didn't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles. They can make their plans and spring their traps, don't bother me none. They _paid_ me so I said _yes_. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was aghast. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity simply because it was more profitable? You would see the world eaten by the Stone Coats and are content with simply being _paid?_"

Another snort. "Wot else is there?" Hickey demanded from the other side of the wall. "I'm not some blind fool 'ho'd give up all I've got on principle. What _is_ principle anyway? Can ya bring it to the bank?"

"Then you are soulless," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "an _atenenyarhu_ who would devour everything simply because someone told you to."

" 'ere now, look 'ho's talkin'," Hickey replied, a smile in his voice. "Ain't you followin' orders, too? Ain't you doing wot that old nigger wants?"

"Do not use such language," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. Even with his increasingly strained relationship with the Old Man, he would _not_ have his mentor's name defamed like that.

"There you go again, givin' up everythin' for a bit o' principle. It ain't worth it, boy."

"_Don't be a child, boy..._"

"I am no _boy_," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled, standing up as anxious energy started to fill him. If only the wall was not between them...!

"Ain't you?" Hickey asked. " 'ere you are, in Bridewell Prison, 'oused with other prisoners of war, an' wot are you doin'? Pickin' a fight 'stead o' tryin' to get outta 'ere. You're so bothered with the little problems you don't even see the bigger problems. Look at you, takin' offense to every little thing, you must be exhausted draggin' all that principle around. An' wot 'ave you got to show for it? Nothin'."

"I have you," Ratonhnhaké:ton countered. "Here in this prison as well. Washington is safe."

"Think so, do you?"

The casual way he said it did not hide the menace of the words, and the rest of the night was spent struggling to control his anxiety, trying to remain calm in the face of the fact that his work was not done. Even with Hickey in prison, Lee and his _raké:ni_ were still out there, plotting. Benjamin Church, too, was still alive; under guard perhaps but still a danger, and now he was alone, lost in a city he had yet to see and in a prison for no reason.

The night was frigid, temperatures plummeting and no window to block the wind or fire to generate heat. Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered in the cold, missing his moccasins and deerskin leggings and thick wool coat, even his hood to stave off the cold. With even a few layers of clothing the night would be merely chilly, but with his bloody cotton shirt and well-worn trousers his teeth chattered and his nose ran and he sniffled. Next to him, he heard Hickey do the same, sneeze and cough and sound as miserable as he. To know that Hickey was so human drove Ratonhnhaké:ton nearly to insanity. Hickey could _not_ be human, he was a Templar! An _atenenyarhu_ that ate the land and the people. He was a demon in the skin of a man, a spawn of Flint to sow the seeds of evil, it made no sense for such a spawn to get a cold, to sneeze and sniffle and act like a _human_.

"_As a metaphor I find it quite appropriate; but you, Connor, don't see it as a metaphor. You think it is real, that these men really are demons. I can assure you, they are men just as we are._"

"_No, Ratonhnhaké:ton, he is a man, just like you and I. You call him __atenenyarhu__ to try and explain what happened when we were children._"

"Oi, when are we gonna get some breakfast 'round here? I want me a nice, juicy steak!"

"Quiet!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton clenched his jaw, huddling around himself as the sun rose and the air slowly began to warm. They were wrong. They were _all wrong_. Hickey was an _atenenyarhu_. He _was_.

The day wore on and Hickey continued to cough and sniffle, fighting a cold that had settled in over the night before taking a nap and snoring uproariously, heedless of the cries of pain beyond their small cages. Ratonhnhaké:ton glared at the wall that separated them, trying to will it away with his thoughts before he became totally convinced that this man was not a Stone Coat at all. If Hickey was truly human, not a demon in disguise, could Ratonhnhaké:ton kill him? Really kill him?

Regret quietly echoed in his thoughts; he remembered his conversation with Achilles after killing Warraghiyagey, of realizing that the men he had killed protecting people were not _atenenyarhu_, but real people, just as he was, just as his _ista_ was. Disquiet filled him as he realized the true weight of the death he had wrought. He had killed _people_, sons and brothers and friends and cousins and members of some community somewhere. Could he have done differently? Should he do differently now? With Hickey? But what of Iottsitíson? What did she think of the thoughts he was having?

… Was this a test? A means to see if he was still worthy of the task she had given him? Was there a lesson he was to learn in this? He wished for her counsel, or that of Oiá:ner; most especially he wanted to talk to Ista, to tell her everything that had happened and have her make it all go away as she always did, give him a stern lecture on what is proper and right and send him off to play with Kanen'tó:kon. He took a deep breath, sneezing in the cold, and tried to figure out what was going on.

Food in this place was given a new name: rations, and were pittance indeed. As the day dragged on, Ratonhnhaké:ton listened to Hickey in complete complacency, as content to be in prison as to be plotting the death of the commander. The man slurped his food, burped, sang drinking songs to pass the time, gave quick turns of phrase to the guards as they passed, blithe to the rattling of the barred doors, meant to terrify prisoners. He even asked after Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Enjoyin' the food?" he asked, a smile in his voice that the young native couldn't see. "Right fit for a king, it is."

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing.

"Suit yourself. Bon appetit, as them Frenchies say. Oi, you know if the French are gonna join in the big scrap out there? They 'ate we Englishmen as much as the next bloke. Figure they'll be happy to shell out a bit o' money for another scrap. Them French girls, they are a pleasure to be'old they are. Grunt better then English bitches, that's for sure."

"Do all you Templars think so poorly of your _oiá:ner_?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked grudgingly, offended and curious and deeply, _deeply_ confused on how he was supposed to react to this man.

"Wot, you mean our womenfolk?" Hickey asked. "Naw, even got a lady grandmaster down south somewhere from what I 'ear. I just like takin' 'em. 'Tween that and a good mug o' beer, and I'm one happy bloke."

"So women are things to you, too? As the slaves? As the land? As the forest?"

" 'ear, now, wot'd I say 'bout principle? You aren't goin' to get me spoutin' no philosophy; ain't that kind o' man."

For a week they traded similar barbs, both freezing in the chill of the late April nights, shivering and sneezing as sickness swept over them and outright killed so many in the prison. Hickey had many points of comment when women came to visit their husbands, only to be pulled aside and beaten or worse. Slowly Ratonhnhaké:ton learned the name of the prison: Bridewell, named after a similar prison in London and only just completed. The cells were filled with prisoners already because it was built specifically to deal with the overflow of another prison, New Gaol, and was quickly becoming the place Tories threw Patriots or other prisoners of war. Word slowly arrived that Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who rode 100 miles in eight hours to join the fight at Bunker and Breed's Hill, was in New York in charge of the Americans, waiting for Washington and his army to arrive. Word also slowly bled in of the war spreading to the southern colonies, South Carolina was mentioned but Ratonhnhaké:ton did not hear much in the way of detail.

Prisoners died by the dozens every night, the late April temperatures at night cold enough that exposure was a real risk. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew the dangers of the cold, and stayed active at night, doing push ups and sit ups, keeping his blood warm and spacing his work out until the sun rose and the day warmed considerably. Hickey seemed to catch his idea on the other side of the wall, and occasionally joined in. Ratonhnhaké:ton resented it deeply, and was left even more confused on what he was supposed to do. In all of his mental assessments of the Stone Coats, he had not expected to have such prolonged exposure to one who seemed and acted so... human. Hickey suffered colds just as much as Ratonhnhaké:ton, he talked and sang and made lewd jokes, swore and laughed and was – in his own way – good-natured. These were not qualities Ratonhnhaké:ton expected to find in an _atenenyarhu_, and he was not sure what to make of it.

But, then, as May arrived, and the temperatures continued to warm, and as Ratonhnhaké:ton started to feel settled in his thoughts, even wondering how he should act on them, everything changed.

Two men breezed through the landing of their floor, one exceedingly well dressed, impeccable in every detail, hair an iron grey of middling age. Hands were clasped firmly behind his back, eyes looking only forward. The other was slovenly to the extreme, dark hair askew, animal hair flecking off his coat, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew them both in an instant, had studied their paintings for years. He pushed himself into a corner, into the shadows, and glared at the sudden revelation that had just descended upon him.

Charles Lee and Haytham Kenway had arrived.

" 'Bout time," Hickey said from the other side of the wall, his voice light and airy and full of itself. "Three weeks I been waitin'. Thank you kindly for the rescue, gents."

"There can be no further mistakes, Thomas. Am I understood?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton breathed, his body vibrating with energy, anxiety and confusion and a dozen other emotions warring with him as he realized he was listening to his father, hearing his voice for the first time. It was smooth, crisp, a cultured accent that indicated he was from London. Stern tones brought on the impression of disappointment, a firm hand, and the faint promise of rough discipline. He sounded like his _ista_, far back in his memory, stern and severe, but with quiet layers underneath that could warm or scare as the situation called for. All sorts of memories flooded Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind of his early childhood, quickly warping to imagination of what his life might have looked like had his _raké:ni_ been there. Now he had a voice to play into those fantasies, and he wondered at what might have been. Would his mother love a man with such a voice? Would she find that enticing? Comfortable? Was his voice what made her choose him? Was-

Haytham Kenway began to leave, assuming Hickey had nodded or given some other nonverbal assent to the man's question, walking stiffly past Ratonhnhaké:ton's cell before Hickey interrupted his departure.

"Wot about the Assassin?"

Haytham Kenway froze, and Ratonhnhaké:ton shrank even further into his corner, uncertain what to do, watching his _raké:ni_'s every move, wondering if he would turn, look at him, see him in the shadows, recognize him, _anything_. Would he free Ratonhnhaké:ton as he was freeing Hickey? Would he try to reach out, learn about his son? What would he do?

His dramatic pause seemed to spur Hickey into saying more.

" 'E's here," the man said, voice eager to please. "They put 'im in the cell next to mine. Guess we didn't quite get 'em all, eh?"

Haytham Kenway said nothing, standing perfectly still. He did not turn; not to Hickey, not to the cell Ratonhnhaké:ton was in, he just breathed, gaze locked straight ahead of him. His face didn't change, nothing was given away, so like his _ista_ it was nearly painful; he almost stepped into the light, just to get a closer look at that stone-cut profile. No, this person was not a Stone Coat; he was too like his mother to think that. He was wood, firm and hard, but deep inside able to bend. Like his mother. Like Ratonhnhaké:ton himself. Pieces of himself that did not come from his mother began to make sense, and curiosity burned in him. He was working up the courage to step forward, make the man look at him, see if there was love in his gaze.

But then the moment was ruined.

Haytham Kenway turned at last, casting a fleeting glance at the _atenenyarhu_ himself. "Deal with this, Charles," he said, voice firm and cold and harsh.

"At once, sir."

And Haytham Kenway left just as quickly as he had come, and with him went Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath. The opportunity was lost, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton had an overwhelming mismatched knot of thoughts and emotions firing back and forth in his head, looking at his father and seeing so much of his mother, picturing his life as something different and realizing for the first time that he had spent his life missing _more _than just his mother. What did that mean? What should he do? What _could_ he do?

Never had he been so desperate for Achilles' counsel.

And he didn't even have time to process, to work through, to understand what he was feeling, because Hickey spoke from the other side of that cursed wall.

"Wot are we gonna do?"

And unlike Haytham Kenway, _Charles Lee_ did look in the cell, he _did_ stare at Ratonhnhaké:ton, he _did _recognize the figure in the shadowed corner. Looking at the slovenly character, the dog hair and the hardened, stone eyes, Ratonhnhaké:ton's brain broke even further. Confusion mixed heavily with hatred, and even a twinge of jealousy that Haytham Kenway had turned to _Charles Lee_ instead of _him_. Even that he didn't know what to do with, but his hatred won out, and he stepped out of the shadows, hands gripping the cool metal and glaring all of his emotion at the dark spawn of Hahgwehdaetgah.

"You're that boy from Cambridge," Lee said, the recognition in his voice mixed with its usual contempt. "Adams' little lap dog."

The silence drew out, one man looking down his nose and the other glaring with all his might. If only the bars were not in the way, the _atenenyarhu_ would be killed now, and his village and his people would be safe. If only... if only...

"Hmmm," Lee said, a small, knowing grin on his face. "I think I have an idea... Yes. Two birds with one stone."

"Do tell," the invisible Hickey said from his cell.

"All in good time," Lee replied, looking away from Ratonhnhaké:ton and going back to Hickey's cell. How dare he walk away! "It's not like the Assassin's going anywhere." Such contempt! He needed to die! For the Kanatahséton! "For now we should see about getting you taken care of."

Hickey, so blithe for their time in prison, finally sounded angry. "What are you on about?" he demanded. "I thought I was gettin' out."

"I'm afraid you won't be leaving for a while, thanks to Benjamin Tallmadge," Lee said, tone dismissive. He was contemptuous even to his compatriots, it seemed. Just like an _atenenyarhu_. "He's been running his mouth, saying all sorts of things. You're being investigated for plotting to assassinate George Washington. Even Master Kenway, for all his influence, has not the power to release you from so grievous a charge. We shall have to handle it differently. I'm off to the Carolinas, soon, so I'll have to work fast. Now," he said, turning back to Ratonhnhaké:ton, stone gaze contemptuous. "I thought we'd finished off your kind."

Ratonhnhaké:ton had an easy response on his lips, his hatred having built and built and built, glaring at this evil demon that he couldn't keep his words in his mouth. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" he growled, gripping the bars and spreading his feet, his body unconsciously preparing for everything. "To rid the world of all who do not share your views."

And Charles Lee _laughed_.

He laughed as if Ratonhnhaké:ton's accusation was actually funny, as if so serious a statement somehow held _humor_. Charles Lee was _amused_ by Ratonhnhaké:ton. Hatred boiled anew, and Ratonhnhaké:ton thought he would explode like black powder for the negative energy filling his body. If he could just _reach_ the man...! He gripped the bars tighter.

"Guilty as charged," Lee said once he was satisfied. "Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important." Then the contemptuous grin again, gaze cold as stone, an adult looking at a child. "But what would you know," he queried, "beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you and the tales you tell yourself."

To dare speak of Achilles in such a way...! His toes curled into the stone.

"I know that the people wish to be free," he growled, "and that men like Washington fight to make it so. You would kill the very hope of the people in your attempt to trample them under your feet. You only wish to eat the world, you are cannibals, _atenenyarhu_, inhuman devils, and _I will stop you from killing Washington._"

Charles Lee scoffed, his face darkening into something even uglier, his dirty face becoming twisted, his voice dropping as contempt turned to hatred in its own right. "Please," he said, "The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it up as he goes along. His pedigree is pathetic – his military record even more so. It was an unequivocal _accident_ that he was able to reclaim Boston last month, more a function of English incompetence than any real skill. I could go on and on but we'd be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits." Lee took a breath, calming himself from his own fury, and Ratonhnhaké:ton saw an opportunity, saw that Lee's own anger had distracted him. His iron grip on the bars softened at last, moving slowly, _very_ slowly, so that no one would notice.

"He must be dealt with," he continued. "You as well. I will abide no more flies in the ointment."

Ratonhnhaké:ton struck, thrusting his hand through the bars and grabbing at the filthy cravat, getting a solid grip and yanking, hoping to slam Lee's head into the bars, disorient him enough to get a grip on his neck and _squeeze_.

It did not occur as he planned, however, Lee had apparently anticipated the desperate gambit and was more than prepared to reverse the outcome. A grip clenched onto his wrist, stronger than Ratonhnhaké:ton anticipated, even realized, and _twisted_, leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton to twist himself to prevent his arm from being broken. It was a rookie mistake, one a novice would make, and he saw too late that his opportunity was not an opportunity at all, but a mind full of hatred pushed beyond rational thought. Now off-balance and trying to prevent injury, another fist reached through the bars, Lee's hand grabbed at Ratonhnhaké:ton's shirt, yanking _him_ as the young native had hoped to do and pulling him to the bars. He felt something in his arm explode in pain, and his temple slammed into the bars with such force that his vision filled with stars. He grunted in pain, and then fists were on his neck, and all too suddenly he was once again six, once again being strangled by an _atenenyarhu_, once again about to be eaten.

The echo of his childhood reverberated in more than the chambers of his mind; as he struggled for air he saw recognition dawn on Lee, a curious look crossing his face.

"All those years ago," he muttered before his eyes widened. "The child in the forest was _you_."

Satisfaction filled Ratonhnhaké:ton, even as his vision clouded with the lack of air. The demon remembered him. "I said I would find you," he gasped, teeth bared.

And Charles Lee laughed. _Again._

"And so you have," he said, voice filled with contempt. "But not quite as you had expected, am I right? You know – all of this might have been avoided, had you only done as I'd asked. Ah, but what's done is done."

The fists on his neck let go suddenly, and before Ratonhnhaké:ton could gasp for breath his shirt was grabbed again and he was slammed into the bars, even harder this time since he was not resisting the pull, and he knew no more.

* * *

"_All of this might have been avoided, had you only done as I'd asked._"

* * *

Whatever pain he felt the first time he awoke in the prison _paled_ in comparison to what he felt as he opened his eyes anew. His arm was swollen at his elbow and his ribs threatened to crush every breath he took. Blood filled his nostrils, and he saw pools of it on the floor. Movement was incomprehensible, every jerk of his muscles sending agony through him. One eye was swollen shut, and he felt the throbbing weight of an anvil slamming into his head repeatedly. He had not just been rushed against the bars, someone had opened his cell and beat him.

No one came to help him. A man, the warden, came only to express his disgust.

"Look at all of you," he said, voice nasal and as arrogant as Lee's. "Pathetic, dirty wretches. You're naught but swine suckling at the teats of civilization. Thieves and scoundrels, all. And do you acknowledge this? Do you repent and beg forgiveness? No. You elect, instead, to commit new and more terrible crimes inside what should be a place of rehabilitation. You bide your time, awaiting the day of your release, that you might corrupt anew."

That was only one of his favored topics, of which there were many, and Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly came aware things he had never considered.

"The worst part is that the good people of New York are forced, quite literally, to pay for your crimes. Where do you think the money for this prison came from, hm? For your outfits? Our wages? Resources wasted because you refuse to contribute to society. You would rather dwell in its margins, living off the hard work of others. We'd be doing everyone a favor if we simply put you all down! Then our money might be spent on more productive things... ah, but it seems our current leaders lack the courage to accept this truth. So you are spared, that you might leech a while longer."

The vitriol was expressed over and over, sinking into Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, echoing Charles Lee's words: "_All of this could have been avoided, had you only done as I asked._"

… Was it true? Was Ratonhnhaké:ton wrong in some way? _Should_ he have pointed Lee in the direction of his village? Would that have stopped the fire? Was it true that he was merely a leech to the white man's world, incapable of living in it fully? He had failed to save Washington, Lee was off to execute the plan through some nefarious means, were there other failures he didn't know about? Was Achilles right, was he still a child? What more had he missed, how else had he failed?

"And if a few of you might die or go missing, who would notice? Who will care, and why should they? You are wasted on the world."

The words were flung at him over and over, and even as his bruises slowly healed, as his head began to clear, the words eventually sank in, and Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know what to do or how to think.

All he had done, all he had ever _tried_ to do, was make the world safe for his people. Since the death of his mother all he could feel was anxiety, the danger that lurked in the creeping expansion of the settlers. All he wanted was to soothe that feeling, to feel like it was _safe_, was that so wrong? How would showing the village to Lee have made anything different? The Stone Coat still would have eaten everything in sight, with the help of Johnson and Hickey and Church. His mother would still have died, why did the _atenenyarhu_ try to pin all the suffering on Ratonhnhaké:ton? Where was the logic of it?

… And why was he wasted on the world? Why did his being from a different culture, a different world, make him so unworthy? So beneath everyone? Why was it _so_ important that people looked and sounded and acted alike? Why did that warden assume so much? That he leeched off society, that he planned on corrupting people, that he refused to contribute? What did the warden know, what proof did he have that Ratonhnhaké:ton, or anyone else trapped here, were of such a persuasion?

Why did the settlers always think the worst of those around them? How damaged was their world that they could think that?

But... was Ratonhnhaké:ton's any better? Stealth, spying, assassination, murder? He was an _Hirokoa_, he killed people – not demons, but actual _people_ – to further his simple goal of keeping his people safe. Was that any different? Any worse, or better either? Achilles spoke of an ancient Mentor, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and his writings of a man named Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, who had spent his life studying the Creed. Nothing was true, everything was permitted.

What did it mean?

What did a phrase like that mean? It had passed through hundreds of years, dozens of languages, thousands of people, virtually untouched. What did it mean that nothing was true? That everything was permitted? How could it guide a person through their deeds, bring solace to the death that one wrought? Achilles had spoken of the Creed often, explaining that it was none of these things, merely an observation of life itself.

"_Times change, Connor,_" he had said. "_And with the times so do the people. To say that nothing is true is to say that truths mold and change with the times. To say everything is permitted is to say that what is a sin in one land is boon to another. To you the thought of possession is nearly incomprehensible, the idea of owning land and resources reprehensible. That is your truth. The Colonial truth is that all of these things are for sale, and are a measure of a person's success and wealth. What is impermissible to you is permissible to the English, or the French. The Creed is not a religion, but an acceptance of the world as it truly is: an illusion._"

Ratonhnhaké:ton, now years later, began to understand the words in more than just principle and abstract thought experiments. He understood now, at last, what it meant to _live_ the Creed. Hickey was right, in a way; Ratonhnhaké:ton could not afford to correct every indiscretion of the Colonists, they would not have their truths rewritten, and they had long ago permitted themselves to perform inhuman acts of cruelty on one another. No, he could not stop all of them, and so he would have to accept them. Quietly. With dignity.

As Achilles did, so often when a traveler or new homesteader realized a man of such dark skin could own land. It was why he held his freeman papers and his deed on his person at all times. It was why he said nothing when slurs were hurled at him. Achilles had accepted a long time ago that the world would not change for him. Slavery had existed since the inception of the Colonies, and hundreds of years of tradition would not break with one man.

And yet...

And _yet_...

How could a person ignore wrongdoing and still call oneself a person?

If the world would not change, then should not Ratonhnhaké:ton, should not _everyone_, change the world and _make_ it a place were such transgressions were not made? People such as Pitcairn, or Johnson, or the abusive guards would still exist, Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to acknowledge that, but surely the numbers of such depraved people would be reduced if the world was a better place? Was that not the goal of the _Hirokoa_ to begin with? To prevent tyrants such as his _raké:ni_, or _atenenyarhu_ such as Lee, from being in control so that the people _themselves_ could make the better world? Was that not what the Continental Congress did? Listen to the will of its people and do as the people decided? Is that not what this war was about? Not suppressing a rebellion, as the English believed, but to have the right to have a say in one's own government?

No. The vitriol of the warden, the snide comments of Hickey, the contempt of Charles Lee could not dissuade him. His mission had not changed. His goal had not changed. _He_ had not changed. He still would kill the Templars; he would still protect his people.

Now, however, he better understood _why_.

The month of June dragged on, and the tiny confines of the cell did not just channel the cold, it channeled the heat as well, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton was grateful for the glass-less window, he could just catch the breeze and pretend to be cool.

Some of his injuries were healed, but new ones had been added. It was not uncommon for the guards to enact cruelties on the prisoners they were supposed to be guarding.

His arm worried him the most, the swelling had not gone down and moving his fingers and hand were nearly impossible. Fever came and went as his body tried to fix the damage. He realized over time that he had not heard from Hickey in days, perhaps weeks as time blurred together for him. He glanced at the wall and the man beyond it, wondering what had happened.

But then, Hickey was at the bared door of his cell, a lazy grin on his face as he stared down and the weakened twenty-year old. The Templar was free.

" 'Ere is 'ow it's gonna work," he said. "Tomorrow, you go before the court, accused of plottin' to kill good ol' Georgie. Once that's all squared away, well then..."

And he offered a sickly grin, lifting his hand up above his head, making a fist and a small yanking motion, a cute sound effect slipping out of his mouth. "Nice knowin' you, 'Hickey.' "

"Right this way sir, so sorry for the confusion," the warden said, and Hickey turned, face smooth and grateful.

"No problem, sir. I knew it was all a misunderstandin'. Imagine, little ol' me confused for Thomas Hickey!"

"No..." Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, weeks of sickness and beatings having weakened him severely. "No you are wrong. That man is..."

"Quiet, Hickey! Or do you need another beating to get it through your savage skull? Filthy redskin!"

And his target walked calmly off, free to do as he had originally planned:

Kill George Washington.

In his sleep he saw Duncan, standing at the cell and giving Last Rites for a white man, his words interspersed with code words for escape. It was a nice dream, until,

"Up! Up with ya! I said _get up_!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton got to his knees slowly, his arm throbbing and weakness threatening to send him back to the darkness. He had dignity now, he understood how to handle the bigoted cruelty. He said nothing, working himself to his feet, and standing tall, towering over the guards. He swayed on his feet, dizzy with the motion, but he refused to fall or faint, simply breathing deeply, accepting what was about to happen to him. His broken, half-healed arm was twisted agonizingly behind his back as his hands were tied behind him, thick rope digging into already abused wrists.

"Walk."

The command was coupled with a shove that sent him stumbling out of his cell, but he once more stood straight, walking as he could and refusing to fall when armed men tried to push him into being faster. He would act with dignity.

As Achilles had.

He understood the value of it now.

"Bye now!" someone said from their cell, knowing full well what an escorted, bound man meant. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not respond, merely held his head as high as he could, putting one bare foot in front of the other. He was lead down the stairs, his legs stiff from inactivity, and down a series of narrow halls before a door was opened, and he was shoved mercilessly into a wood-covered wagon. His arm exploded in agony, and he could not stop the grunt that fell from his lips, and for the life of him he had no memory of the wagon ride as he tried to fight off the waves of pain of his freshly broken arm.

He had only just gotten control of his pain when the wagon stopped is unknowable ride, and a guard climbed in, grabbing his broken arm and using it to lift him to his feet. He very nearly fainted from the pain, and his time spent idle made the guard lose patience and shove him out of the wagon. He angled his fall and landed on his good side, the sharp motion of the impact blinding him with pain for a moment. Weakness overtook him, and he had not the strength to get his legs under him.

The dissonant noise of shouts and cries of people, hundreds and hundreds of people, filled his ear, confusing him, and rain pelted at him. He realized dimly that he had not been outside since April. What month was it now? What day, what week? How long had he been caged?

" 'Ello Connor."

Wood. Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately thought of wood and willed his face into a mask of the False Face Society, giving nothing away. Hickey grabbed his broken arm and hoisted him up, the pain overwhelming and almost impossible to bottle up. He managed to stay conscious however, and refocus on the _atenen—_the Templar's words. "Didn't think I'd miss your goin' away party, did ya? I hear Washington 'imself will be in attendance. Hope nuttin' bad 'appens to him."

The plan fell together quickly in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, why Hickey had taken his own name and placed it on the young native, and why he was here at the trial.

They moved through a crowd that was too numerous to count, and turning a corner he saw not a courthouse, but a gallows. He turned fevered eyes to Hickey.

"You said there would be a trial," he accused.

"Ah, no trials for Traitors, I'm afraid," Hickey said brightly, a man enjoying himself. "Lee an' 'aytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!"

Wood. Dignity. Achilles. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to effuse them all, turning to Hickey with a thick layer of calm wrapped around him. "I will not die today," he said simply. "The same cannot be said for you."

He would kill Hickey. Not because he was a Stone Coat, but because his scheme would stop the revolution before it even began. Stop his people from being safe. Stop the freedoms of the Americans as they fought with their capitol in London to be heard. He channeled that serenity into his voice, quietly making his promise, and knowing that by just declaring it it would be done. As the Sky Goddess commanded.

"That's enough! Keep moving!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to walk through the crowd towards the gallows. The noise was incomprehensible, curses and slurs and vulgarities, all mashed together in a bloodthirsty chorus of hatred. This was the Colonist at their worst: thirsty for blood, thrilling at the thought of carnage. This was the base instinct that made people _atenenyarhu_, Stone Coats that ate not people, but each other. Ratonhnhaké:ton learned a new facet of the truth.

… Oh. Nothing was true.

He very nearly smiled at the revelation.

The summer shower was pouring, the clouds white and high in the sky, giving a humid scent to the air and a watery mist along the ground, the sound of rain very near lost under the shouts of the incalculable crowds.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up and saw Washington up a series of steps, two guards at his flank, the mountain of a man looking out over the crowd with a stoic face. Somewhere deep in his mind, an eagle screeched, eyes drawn to someone falling in the crowds, but he didn't understand why, and Hickey shoved him into the narrow gauntlet, hands reaching out to abuse his beaten body even further. His broken arm was in agony, and his vision hazed several times as he tried to stay tall as he walked to the gallows. The muddy stone street cut into his feet, the rain getting in his eyes and he unable to wipe it away. His hair felt oily, slick, and moving hurt. The gallows loomed higher and higher, the noose hanging lazily from its perch, a man there already playing to the crowd, savoring the approach of his victim.

The thin gauntlet got narrower and narrower, the crowd pressing in amongst themselves to get a look at the traitorous half-breed, to see the face of the redskin savage traitor that was about to die for their entertainment. Curses that he had never heard before were thrown at him, people spitting at him and giving rude gestures, rocks and rotten fruit sailing through the air; all of which he endured as quietly as possible as his vision continued to swim, as his weakness threatened to take him before it was time. Hickey was at his shoulder, toothy grin and happy wave to the crowds, enjoying his work. Ratonhnhaké:ton had one chance, if he could make it to the base of the steps... if he had enough strength...

A tiny, frail, slip of a girl filled his vision, poorly made fist pulling back and clipping his jaw.

He could not even handle that small exertion of force, and he fell to his knees, eyes blind with pain, sweat streaming down his brow, as he tried to breathe and stay conscious.

He couldn't do it. He was not capable of stopping this madness. There was no hope...

A shoe entered his field of vision, and a dark hand weathered with age.

"You are not alone," a thin papery voice said. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't dare look up as he recognized the voice, did not dare give away just _who_ was with him. Everything in his mind turned off as he heard those words. _You are not alone_. His breath quickened, anticipation flooding his chest as he realized that his trials were over, that Iottsitíson had seen his struggles and answered him.

He risked glancing to the side, seeing the crumpled hat hiding Achilles' eyes, aged mouth pressed into a frown.

"Forget about me," he said softly, afraid to speak too loudly. "You need to stop Hickey." It was all that mattered. The plot needed to be stopped. It was not necessary for him to live through this hanging, the others would finish his work. He was but a pawn in the Sky Goddess' game, others would fulfill her needs. Did they even know the danger? That the plot was to happen _today_? "He's -"

"Up you go!" Hickey said brightly, once more grabbing his broken arm and using it to lift the weakened Ratonhnhaké:ton back to his feet. "Don't wanna be late, now do we? Ya just had to be a hero, didn't ya? You and Georgie both. Now you'll see what it gets ya: a pine box and l'il else. All that bloody 'principle's' about to 'ang ya."

Hickey shoved him up the steps, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggling for balance before he was led to the trap door.

The hangman had already started his speech. "Brothers. Sisters. Fellow Patriots. Several days ago we learned of a scheme so vile, so dastardly - that even repeating it now, disturbs my being." The man gesture grandly to Ratonhnhaké:ton, a burlap sack in his fist. "The man before you plotted to murder our much beloved General."

The crowd booed loudly, arms waving and motion rippling over the bodies. Thousands were packed into this square, and their vitriol was palpable.

"Indeed!" the hangman agreed. "What darkness or madness moved him, none can say. And he himself offers no defense. Shows no remorse. And though we have begged and pleaded with him to share what he knows," the sack was placed over his head, the dim light of the overcast rain making him just see through the material, "he maintains a deadly silence." His eagle pointed out Hickey, at the base of the gallows, watching with an anticipatory sneer, his true colors bleeding through. The noose was added next, tightening around his neck, echoing his childhood and making fear flood his body. He held himself perfectly still, trying to think of wood, of Achilles, of the hope that the old Mentor would save Washington.

"If the man will not explain himself - if he will not confess and atone - what other option do we have, but this? He sought to send us into the arms of the enemy. And thus, we are compelled by justice to send him from this world. May God have mercy on your soul!"

There was a stiff sound the sensation of falling, and then the desperate need for air _air airairairairair_ an eagle screeched somewhere and his eagle shrieked back and he was falling again and landing and mud and _air he needed air_ hands on his neck _no go away_ but the noose was loosened and at last he could _breathe_. He gasped, sucking in as much air as he could, only he breathed in rain and he rolled over to cough it all up, his arm limp at his side and air at last _air!_

He took in all the air he could pull for his lungs, coughing and gasping and aware of little else.

A hand touched his shoulder, and his eagle broke though his cacophony of disjointed thoughts, and only one remained standing.

Hickey was going to kill Washington.

Today.

Now.

This instant.

He looked up to see Achilles, a look on his face Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen before, and his beloved _tamahac_ in his hand. Ratonhnhaké:ton reached for it weakly, silently begging to be allowed to finish his work.

Achilles' face had not changed, that look still locked in place, before he handed over the hatchet and offered a whispered, "Go."

Everything was distorted, sound blocked out for the racing beats of his heart and his ragged, desperate gasps of air. It felt as though the world had slowed down somehow, everything was slow, warped, hard to interpret. The crowds had all but dispersed, whatever had been done to save Ratonhnhaké:ton from hanging having terrified everyone into fleeing for their lives. Rain was everywhere, hard to see, hard to smell, hard to understand, but his eyes locked onto Hickey, and everything else fell away.

Hickey, for his part, was shocked to see the _Hirokoa_ alive and appear from under the gallows, and with an annoyed snarl he turned and dashed full tilt for the steps that held the Patriot Commander.

_That_ would never _happen_, and as Clipper dived into a man with a musket and Stephane threw his butcher knife across the way at something Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't see, he, too, sprinted full tilt after the would-be killer. The chase was all too apparent for anyone watching, and the guards at Washington's shoulders did their job well, grabbing their charge and pulling him back.

After untold weeks locked up in that death trap of a prison, after suffering infections and beatings and savagery, after surviving a hanging, Ratonhnhaké:ton was very nearly weak as a kitten, but Hickey had spent all of those weeks in prison as well, had been as sick as Ratonhnhaké:ton, and _Hickey_ was older, less fit, and now slower than the younger and faster Ratonhnhaké:ton. It was no contest.

A weak swing brought the _tamahac_ into the man's shoulder, and the spray of blood diluted quickly in the rain as both men fell, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggling for air to supply the exertion he was doing. He struggled to his knees and crawled to Hickey. His strike had rung true, even weak as it was; it had hit an artery, and Hickey was bleeding out.

**"**Dammit," Hickey muttered. "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked down on the man. It was all that was left in him to do. The blind hatred had burned out weeks ago, and all he could feel was the thin vapors of contempt, mixed with pity and disapproval.

Hickey scoffed as he always did. "Don't look at me like that," he slurred. "We're different, you and I. You're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies. Where as I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand and a titty in the other. Thing is, boy, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. You? Your hands will always be empty."

He died.

Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned back, job over, and nothing was left in him. He looked up blearily to see Patriots surrounding him, muskets raised, and he was too tired to even feel fear. His job was done, that was all that mattered. If he died, well, at least the Old Man would no longer be bothered.

"At ease, men! At ease! I said lower your goddamn guns! This man's a hero!"

The young native looked up to see Israel Putnam, whom he'd met at Bunker Hill and spoke to on occasion, chewing on a cigar as he often did and waving his hands, habitual curses making the men lower their arms. Putnam gave one glance at Ratonhnhaké:ton and offered a wry grin. "The General can be so stubborn sometimes. Piffle, he said, when we warned him something like this would happen! Piffle! Then Tallmadge goes shouting to anyone who'd listen what happened to you, and we all see you at the gallows instead of this waste of skin."

He kicked the corpse, disrespectful of the life that had been taken.

"Stop," Ratonhnhaké:ton said weakly.

"_There you go again, givin' up everythin' for a bit o' principle. It ain't worth it, boy._"

Perhaps it wasn't, but Ratonhnhaké:ton would give this man respect as he did not for the others. If the world needed to change, then he needed to be the first to start it, to show the world the proper way to be.

Putnam was not so understanding. "He wanted to kill the Commander. Nearly killed you as well. He was a scoundrel."

"But still a man," he said softly his voice raspy and hoarse, still clinging to the air it breathed.

"Hmph," the Connecticut man snorted. "You're nothing, if not consistent."

Clipper was there, working through the crowds, as was Duncan and Stephane, and Achilles' dark shadow could be seen in the crowds. Safety was only feet away, but there was one last thing to do. "Where is Washington?" he asked. "I need to speak with him."

"Bundled off as soon as your execution went sideways. He's likely on his way back to Philadelphia by now, to get orders from Congress. Something wrong? Besides all of this I mean?"

His vision was dimming, there was nothing left in him, but he needed to do this one last thing. "He is still in danger," he said, hearing fading into a high-pitched ring. "Hickey did not act alone..."

But the world tilted, and he knew nothing after that.

* * *

Desmond took a deep breath _thank you I can breathe!_ as he sat up from the Animus. Surviving Charles Lee strangling Ratonhnhaké:ton as a child had been easier because there had been more memories between the strangling and actually leaving the Animus. But now, having _just_ survived a hanging (and _how_ did Ratonhnhaké:ton's neck not break?) and even with the partition firmly closed in his mind, Desmond tugged at his shirt and hoodie, trying to make more space around his neck and the phantom pain of what Ratonhnhaké:ton had just endured.

It was like he could still feel the noose, scratching and digging into his jugular, his windpipe closing, gasps becoming futile, and the weight of his entire body being supported only by his chin.

Desmond shook his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose. That was _over_. Closed off. But good _God_ that was still terrifying.

He needed a distraction. Desperately.

He glanced over to see William looming behind Shaun and knew he hadn't been brought out of the Animus for a simple break.

"Everything alright?"

William turned, face as impassive as always. "Shaun has located a second power source," he explained. "I've asked Rebecca to charter a flight for us."

Well this was certainly going to be a distraction. "Where to?"

Shaun turned and offered a grim smile. "Brazil. São Paulo to be precise. It may not be Rio, but I expect we'll have some fun there."

Desmond offered his own grim smile. "That would rather depend on your definition of 'fun'."

Shaun's smile brightened. "Indeed."

Desmond stood and started to stretch, amazed that being in the Animus for days on end didn't reduce his fitness. Instead, it seemed to keep improving it. He dropped into exercises to get used to his body and feel where the new limits were while everyone else started planning the trip to São Paulo.

Unlike going to New York, they were going to fly, obviously. What wasn't so obvious was the round about route they were taking. Their tickets were to Rio de Janeiro and then the almost six hour drive to São Paulo. But that didn't get into the fact that the flight wasn't even direct. Rather than driving down to New York City, they were instead going to drive west to Buffalo and have several connecting flights. All to avoid detection by Abstergo.

Desmond shrugged between isometrics. It would take longer, but avoiding detection was key.

Rebecca was already done booking the flight and was starting to pack some essentials.

"So, bikini or one piece?"

William scowled at here. "I doubt we'll have time for the beach," he stated.

"Bikini, definitely," Shaun replied with a somewhat lecherous grin. "Even if it's late spring, the beaches will still be phenomenal."

Rebecca gave a light chuckle, and Desmond smiled at seeing a peaceful moment between the two after all the stress everyone had been under. He finished his exercises and started to pack his own stuff. He did a quick search for the weather of São Paulo and found that he really didn't have anything that would work. With daytime temps pushing eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and nights hovering in the upper sixties, his cool and cold-weather clothes weren't going to cut it. Jeans and a t-shirt, sure, but he'd need the hoodie to hide his face, so he'd need to have a lighter one than the warm thick one he'd been wearing to survive the chill in the caverns.

"Unless the rest of you have summer-wear handy," he said, "we'll need to go clothes shopping when we arrive."

Any response or solution someone could offer was cut off when Shaun growled an irritated curse. "This is annnnnnoying," he grumbled.

Desmond walked over. "What is it?"

Shaun kept scowling at the computer. "Abstergo is definitely on to us. Most of the power sources I was tracking are gone. Guess they're rushing to snap them up now that they know what we're up to." Shaun shook his head. "We've got other cells scouting for us, running interference, trying to grab anything they can." He leaned back with a heavy sigh. "It's just hard with our numbers and their resources."

Desmond glanced around the massive cavern, his eyes narrowed as his DNA from Those Who Came Before whispered. "We only need two more," he said softly. "The one you just found that we'll get, and one other."

Shaun looked to Desmond, eyes wide and brows raised. "Oh?"

Desmond nodded, "That should be enough power for what we need. Not enough for the whole facility, but enough to get that gate open."

"You know, I'm not even going to _ask_ how you know that."

Desmond chuckled. "So you finally worked things out with Rebecca?"

The historian scowled. "Not really," he muttered. "But we still have our moments." He sighed. "I just don't know how to help her."

"Be there for her and don't break anything," Desmond replied, thinking of how he himself was dealing with Lucy's death. "You can't fix everything yourself. But you need to make sure you don't destroy the supports you already have."

Shaun scoffed. "And when did _you,_ the isolationist loner, become an expert?"

Desmond rolled his eyes. Rebecca needed Shaun and Shaun's methods of dealing with _anything_ were snarky comebacks. Well if that was how he was going to be, Desmond just walked away. He went back to his computer to start doing research on São Paulo. Then he noticed the date. November 25, 2012. Three days after November 22.

"Dammit," he muttered. "Missed Thanksgiving."

William was walking by and paused. "Somehow I doubt you had people to celebrate Thanksgiving with," he said.

Desmond frowned and scowled, but didn't dare say anything to break the almost softer relationship he finally had with his father. "You don't need _people_ around you to be thankful for things."

"And what were you ever thankful for?" William asked. His voice was still cold, but Desmond thought he heard some underlying curiosity and decided to accept the hidden olive branch.

"You're right, Turkey Day wasn't one I'd spend with others. But that doesn't mean I didn't have my own traditions," Desmond replied, trying to hold back some of the bite in his voice. "Aside from the Parade, I always spent Thanksgiving at the homeless shelter."

William raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Rolling his eyes, Desmond turned to focus on his computer and not look at his father. "Yeah, Dad. Believe it or not, some of the bullshit you pounded into my head stuck. I was no philanthropist, believe me, but I _did_ believe in helping people. I may not have believed that _killing_ people was helping them, but making sure those with nothing had the dignity of a decent Thanksgiving? I could do that. Always snuck out booze from _Bad Weather_ and mixed cocktails. The owner knew what I was doing but pretended not to notice every year, even when she bought more alcohol and left it out for me to filch."

"I'm... surprised," William said softly.

"I was and am a reclusive hermit, Dad. You pounded that in very well," Desmond replied. "But reclusive doesn't mean heartless, and it doesn't mean disconnected. Maybe you're right, maybe my life was shit in a shitty job with a shitty apartment and a shitty future, but it was still one that _I_ chose."

"Yes," William said softly. "I suppose so."

Desmond sighed and turned. "Look, I-"

William waved him off. "It's fine. I suppose I never thought about it like that. I just saw you as a runaway, giving up responsibility and the ability to _do_ something to fix the world to go do selfish things that produced nothing. But I guess I didn't really know you."

Desmond bit back the first and second sarcastic response that came to mind. "Assassins fight so that others can stumble along and learn the truth of the world. That Nothing is True and Everything is Permitted. When all one can do is simply _survive_, there isn't exactly much time for reflection on society as a whole. So while I may not have believed in the Creed, I did think that survival was not what people should have focused on."

They shared a quiet moment together and then William was back in leader mode. "Shaun's continuing his search for additional power sources. I'm working to coordinate with the other cells, having them do recon and watching for Abstergo. Rebecca's been monitoring your sessions. I'm hoping to duplicate some of the recordings and send them to other cells for further research. I'm also hoping there's a way to bypass some of these memories, but synchronization seems to dictate your progress in chronological order. Hopefully, some day we'll have a way to move through memories more quickly. Would certainly save a lot of time in situations like this."

Desmond worked not to roll his eyes and only nodded, turning back to his computer again to ignore his father.

They were on the road, heading to Buffalo, New York, within an hour, huddled in their coats, yet packed for summer. Except for Desmond. William and Shaun were both in front of the van, and Rebecca had very loudly stated that she was going to sleep in the back on the way to the airport. It was a three and a half hour ride and, rather than sleeping, she was very quietly talking with Desmond.

"Shaun is _really_ getting on my nerves!" she hissed. "You'd think with everything that's going on, the guy would stop being such a douche! Maybe he thinks it's funny. Or maybe it's part of his snarky British 'charm'. Or maybe it's how he deals with the stress. Whatever it is, it's getting old _real_ fast. We've got enough to worry about," she spun her finger to indicate everything, "you know, end of the world and everything..." She shook her head. "You'd _think_ he'd show a little restraint or maturity or _something_!"

And so on and so forth.

Desmond listened quietly, knowing that this was what Lucy would normally do, only with advice. And while he tried to give advice to Shaun, Rebecca was more delicate. Shaun's reaction to Lucy's betrayal and death was just to be more Shaun. Rebecca wasn't handling it nearly so well, and was easily swinging into depression. Desmond recognized the signs. After all, depression made people turn to alcohol, and the _Bad Weather_ had seen many depressed drunks over the years. Thankfully Rebecca wasn't turning to alcohol, but her main support system, Lucy, was what had been destroyed and then ripped away. She was struggling to find a new support that met her needs and Shaun wasn't conforming to what she needed. Nor could he, not when he was also dealing with the same problem.

"Sorry," Rebecca mumbled. "Not like you need to hear me venting. You've got enough on your plate."

"Really, Rebecca, it's fine," Desmond replied, putting an arm around her. "I may not know what to say, but I _do_ know how to listen."

Rebecca chuckled. "I guess I should get that sleep I said I was going to get."

Desmond shrugged. "I'm still all ears if you need me."

Her smile was softer, and a little sadder. "Please don't say anything to Shaun."

"Say anything about what?"

She chuckled again and finally lay down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INTENSE chapter is INTENSE.
> 
> The obvious first: however cool the prison level of the game was, consider what you do: meet Washington's biographer, start a fight to steal a key that doesn't work to make a fake key to plant while the real one is stolen to break you out. Logic = null. Also, it is a huge distraction from the emotional content of the memory: meeting Haytham for the first time. And so it was eighty-six'ed.
> 
> For fifteen chapters Ratonhnhake:ton has not known how to think of his father, and so he shies away from the thought; and it has now come back to bite him as he sees his father and has no idea how to react - all those thoughts he should have had earlier all crash into his head all at once leaving him a tangled mess. Whether he knew it or not, though, he had expectations - any child does when meeting a parent for the first time - and Haytham failed to meet any of those expectations. That Haytham sees Charles as a son does nothing to help.
> 
> Ratonhnhake:ton also finally has his deep meditation on the Creed and what it means for him. He'll touch on this later but it boils done to a sentence he's said repeatedly: how can one see evil and not do something to stop it? He had a huge evolution on seeing what the Templars are, but he has not changed his opinions on what they DO. He's started to grow up. There's not really much to add, the scene writes itself.
> 
> Also, there is no way in hell that either of Connor or Hickey survived exposure in the prison in the months of April. Temps in New York dip to the forties at night in April and in Connor's thin excuse for clothes he would have been dead the first night, healthy young buck or not. We tried to make it work. Honestly Connor would be dead several times over because disease was so rampant, especially because he's a Native American and their immune system was absolutely not prepared for the onslaught of sickness the Europeans brought with them. More on that in later chapters.
> 
> And Desmond snuck in there, too! Not much to say, the bulk of the next chapter is about him. Speaking of which:
> 
> Next chapter: Desmond and Cross. Connor and PTSD.


	17. Daniel Cross

The flights they took seemed to take forever and were roundabout. Granted, that was the point, but that didn't change the fact that it was exhausting. It was on their third change over, flying from Lima to Rio de Janerio, that Desmond decided he was sick of the travel. A direct flight would have taken less time and there were ways to hide in airports and then through the city and country. Flying, felt strangely unnatural to Desmond and even though he knew it was the safest mode of travel, he still couldn't quite bring himself to trust it. Perhaps it was because he'd been on so few flights. He certainly hadn't ever been on a plane growing up on the Farm, and traveling across the country to New York had been hitchhiking or by foot. Ending up in Italy he'd been unconscious, and the same for the flight back to the U.S. Actually, upon reflection, this was probably the first flight Desmond would actually _remember_ being on.

How strange.

And there were all the memories of his ancestors. They were safely locked away behind partitions, but the most vivid, those of Altaïr, Ezio, Haytham, and Connor, were all before flight was even an idea in most people's minds. All four of them would have been leery of flying in a giant metal bird. But Desmond kept those behind the partitions, and knew that most of his anxiety was that he'd never flown before.

And if all the craziness of catching connectors and being bumped was any indication, Desmond didn't think he'd get used to flying any time soon.

He was sitting with Shaun on this flight, determined to remain awake and aware to make up for the flights he'd been unconscious for. He'd sleep on the long ride from Rio to São Paulo. Shaun was still typing at his laptop, grumbling on just how little room he had and how he'd start swearing if the person in front of him even _dared_ to lean his seat back. Desmond didn't complain, as he had the aisle seat and could at least stick his long legs out into the aisle instead of how scrunched up Shaun was. William was further cramped against the window, but snoozing peacefully like flights were not an issue.

Bastard.

Shaun was still scowling at his laptop. Finally he leaned over and whispered, "All these Juno visits, and emails too, apparently, have got me thinking..."

Desmond raised a brow.

"What happened to Tinia and Minerva? They're the ones who invited us to this little Apocalypse party and now they've gone and buggered off. A little inconvenient... not to mention rude."

But it was a good point. "And why has Juno been the only one contacting us? Why is she there and not one of the others?" Desmond added. Juno hadn't even mentioned Minerva or Tinia. Minerva had mentioned both and Tinia had mentioned Minerva. Why the exclusion of Juno?

"I hadn't thought of that," Shaun replied. "I'll try and poke around later once we're back. See if there's not some sign of what happened to them..."

"Just be careful."

Shaun offered his usual sarcastic, yet cheerful smile. "Always am."

Desmond rolled his eyes.

Arriving at Rio was uneventful, and once they rented a van (and Desmond stopped off at a clothing store to get a cooler hoodie), came the long drive down the coast to São Paulo. After almost twenty hours of flying, Desmond happily slept the drive away in the back, letting the others worry about Abstergo, routes, and cover.

He awoke only when William shook him awake at the room in the _cortiço_ they'd be staying at in the Bom Retiro district, and Desmond slept for another four hours once they were settled in. He woke up again the following morning, and finally felt rested. He stretched, exercised, took a shower, and eagerly came down for breakfast at a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street.

São Paulo was, by far, the largest city in all Brazil, and the largest city in both Americas, and second only to Mexico City as the most populous, with New York eking out a close third. The marks of such size were clear in the skyscrapers that could be easily at home in New York, Tokyo, and any other financial powerhouse in the world. Built on a plateau of the Brazilian Highlands, the city was humid subtropical and well on its way to the summer rainy season. It was a constant drizzle as Desmond walked down the street, and he was oddly disappointed with the ethnicity he saw around him.

Being in South America, Desmond had been expecting to see a lot of people of Hispanic or Native American or mixed descent. After all, Spain and Portugal both had claimed wide swaths of the continent and had centuries of intermarriage that England and France didn't care for up in North America. While Desmond knew he had many nationalities within his heritage, even more that he hadn't visited yet beyond his partitions, he still looked white on the outside. He was, in a small way, looking forward to being a minority. But it seemed that by being such a global city, São Paulo was also a majority of white people. Desmond sighed.

Portuguese was everywhere he listened, but he was surprised to hear a fair amount of Italian as well, particularly in the accent of Portuguese. Sitting in the restaurant, Desmond closed his eyes and retreated to that island he'd been on for so long in the recesses of his mind and looked up to the partitioned sky. If he was going to be wandering around Brazil, he needed to understand what was being said around him. So he started sifting through partitions, seeing if any of his ancestors knew the language, or at least enough for him to get the basics. Two generations back from Connor, Edward Kenway had a passing understanding from sailing the Caribbean, and with that basis Desmond shifted through more partitions, seeking ancestors that had the understanding. Altaïr was oddly helpful, having studied so many languages of Latin descent and being able to figure out the roots and what was being spoken. An hour later, Desmond finished sipping his coffee and was pleased to note that he could understand what was being said around him.

He couldn't quite bite back a smile at his success of controlling the Bleeding Effect so thoroughly.

He returned to the _cortiço_, and sat in the tiny kitchen where Rebecca was blearily trying to figure out where the coffee was. He provided a cup.

"'re the best," she grumbled, collapsing into a chair and sipping the godly drink. Shaun was already up and at the computer, researching something, and William was nowhere to be seen.

"We ready?" he asked, once Rebecca had enough time with her coffee to wake up.

"Almost," Shaun replied. "We'll be thieving away this evening, so today is about research and rest, so that we can leave once we're done."

"Where's my dad?"

"Scouting, of course," Rebecca replied, awake enough to finally start eating breakfast. "According to our intel, the power source is being worn as a bracelet by some tycoon's trophy wife."

Desmond looked to Rebecca, her serious face and sparkling eyes, then burst out laughing. "Really? _Really_? Those cubes are bigger than my fist! No way is it some bracelet unless it's part Transformer!" Desmond continued to laugh. "Imagine that! A Decepticon hiding as a bracelet, oh the humiliation!"

Rebecca was quickly laughing as well and Shaun remained deadpan. "I'd have never thought you'd even _seen_ television as a child, let alone those damnable cartoons of the eighties!"

"Hey!" Rebecca barked, "the eighties were magical! And don't you dare get started on My Little Pony!"

"We were all _born_ in the eighties! We're too young to have seen their cartoons!"

"Reruns, Shaun. Reruns."

Desmond still laughed. "I ran away at sixteen. I knew I was pop-culture deprived and worked to at least catch up on references so that I didn't stick out. Even if I preferred the History Channel, doesn't mean I don't know the highlights of what I missed growing up."

Shaun simply rolled his eyes. "Next you'll all be dragging me to BronyCon."

"With cosplay," Desmond deadpanned. "I think you cosplaying as a pony would be perfect."

"Oh yeah!" Rebecca laughed. "He's bookish enough for Twilight Sparkle, but I think he might be better as Spike!"

Desmond turned to Rebecca. "We missed this year's BronyCon, how about next year?"

"A _Pony _convention? At _least_ make it a _Dr. Who_ convention!" Shaun snapped.

"No way," Desmond chuckled.

"You wanted the eighties, Shaun, you mentioned BronyCon, you clearly want to go," Rebecca said airily. "We wouldn't be good friends if we didn't support your innermost desire."

"Besides," Desmond smiled. "The first BronyCon was fun, to say nothing of the one last summer in Jersey."

They dissolved into laughter again.

It was an odd release, being able to laugh about cheesy eighties cartoons and teasing Shaun. It released all the pressure of the upcoming end of the world, at least for a little while. And it felt _good_ to laugh. They'd had so little to laugh at recently, that it was refreshing and invigorating.

As Desmond finally wound down on laughing, he turned back to Rebecca. "So, not a bracelet."

The rocker giggled. "No, not a Decepticon bracelet."

They all chuckled again.

"But," Rebecca finally said seriously, "it _is_ property of a local VIP, like back in New York. Guy runs a wrestling arena. Plans to give the power source to his trophy wife as an anniversary thing. With tonight being a big fight, he'll be distracted and it'll be the best chance to sneak in and take it."

"Wrestling? Here? Not soccer?"

"_Football_," Shaun corrected sourly. "Bloody _Americans_."

Desmond and Rebecca ignored him.

"Yes, _wrestling_," Rebecca replied. "You know other countries might be surprised that the good old U.S. has more than football and baseball. And basketball."

"That's assuming no one's seen the Olympics," Desmond countered. "We always field the biggest team and it's in just about _everything_, even if we suck at several of the events."

"Moving along," Shaun growled, rolling out a map of the arena, "his office is here, on the upper floors, but given that he's a VIP, it's one of the best secured. Only one lift, and it's run by security cards to even get to the floor."

"Like that will even be a problem," Desmond replied, looking at the catwalks and maintenance stairs.

"Still, we'll have to be careful. VIPs are always delicate about their belongings."

That evening, just as the sun was setting and they'd gone over all plans and contingencies, Desmond headed out to the Luz Station and took the metro. What was wonderful about being in the Bom Retiro district _was_ the Luz Station, which connected with practically every line of the subway in the city. It was the Grand Central Station of the city. A few connections later and Desmond stepped out to the platform he wanted.

He reached up to rub his nose. "You there, Rebecca," he said softly.

"_Bad r-cepti-n. Can yo- he-r me_?"

"Well," Desmond muttered, "glad to see that's working. Guess I'll try you back when I'm topside."

Desmond ascended to the streets, remembering his ascent every morning in New York on his way to work. Looking around cautiously, he pulled his hoodie down a little lower, and started strolling.

"You copy now?" he asked softly.

"_Loud and clear_."

"I'll be at the arena in ten minutes."

"_Great_."

The early evening was cool and humid, and Desmond followed the crowd that was starting to form near the arena. Above were flashing posters and billboards about the epic fight about to happen between Luis Otavio Duris and Guilmere Venancio. Desmond had never heard of either of them, but he didn't ever follow sports beyond knowing what highlights were needed for his customers.

The lines at the ticket booth were long, and Desmond let the crowd pull him to one. "Now to find a ticket," he muttered, keeping his mission objectives in mind and small in scale so that this whole heist wouldn't seem insurmountable.

"_We don't have time to play nice,_" Rebecca said, "_steal someone else's._"

Desmond stopped. "Bit of a dick move, don't you think?" Because even though Assassins always hovered in the gray area between good and bad, even though he was _going_ to steal something, Desmond didn't think stealing a ticket that someone had worked hard to earn the money for was the right thing to do. Getting inside? Finding the power source? Stealing _that_? Yes, the right thing to do. But stealing from Joe Average? Not so much.

Rebecca faltered on the com. "_Well, I guess you could try and sneak past security instead..._"

"Much better option."

Desmond back tracked to a restroom he'd seen and slipped out the window. Rather than dropping to the ground, he instead climbed. He'd spent the entire day with the map of the building, and not just the layout but also the maintenance portions. It was a long climb, leaping from hand hold to hand hold, but he still made it to the top swiftly and without too much strain. It seemed all his time in the Animus really _was_ improving his fitness.

"Okay, I'm on the roof," Desmond whispered. "I'll be inside momentarily." He found a roof access and pulled out the lockpicks he had from his backpack. Lockpicking had been a skill that he'd been exceptional at when growing up on the farm, better than Haytham, and Desmond had very little trouble getting in. He closed the door behind him and relocked it, so that nothing would be suspicious, and stealthily maneuvered through the hall and out onto the catwalks. Overlooking the entire stadium, Desmond squinted and looked around, trying to orient himself. Concentrating, and reaching to the back part of his mind that connected with eagles, he looked with his Eagle Vision, almost hearing an eagle screech and almost recognizing what breed of eagle. Looking around in his forensic like vision, he noted the distinct red glow of blood, and glanced below him.

The blood was on batons of security, who were bigger and thicker than most bouncers Desmond had met.

"That doesn't look like normal security..."

"_Because it isn't,_" Rebecca sighed. "_Those are Abstergo agents. Cross is probably here too. You need to be _careful_. We... don't want to lose you_."

"I'm notoriously hard to kill," Desmond replied, trying not to think of Lucy and the aching loss.

He stuck to the catwalks and maintenance halls, but Desmond couldn't get to the VIP room by staying there. He casually walked out to wide upper hall and blending into the crowds, stopping to chat in Portuguese with some of the people, easily imitating an Italian accent.

"So who do you think will win?"

"Guilmerme Venancio, without a doubt."

"No way, Venancio doesn't have the spine to last that long!"

An Abstergo agent was behind Desmond, talking to everyone who came up the stairs. "Have you seen this man? Contact security immediately if you do. We're looking for _this_ man. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately."

Desmond stayed in the crowds, chatting idly as they moved forward.

As the flow moved closer to the VIP area, security got thicker and the crowd got thinner.

"_You're gonna have to find another way around. Security's too tight here._"

"Ya think," Desmond muttered. Thankfully there was another restroom and it was easy to climb outside. This part of the building was almost butt up against the next, and Desmond wall crawled along, one arm and leg on one side, the other arm and leg on the other wall, building a good momentum until he was farther down and found another bathroom to slip into.

"Look, it just sort of happened. We didn't mean for it to. It just... did. I'm sorry," one man in the bathroom said.

"You're _sorry_? She's my sister, man! My _fucking_ little sister!"

"We're in love. Okay. There. I said it. We're in love and we've _been_ in love for a long time."

But the brother was still pissed off. "You're supposed to be my best friend and here you are _banging_ my sister behind my back!"

"You should be happy for us. I'll take good care of her. You'll see."

"Go visit the _bitch_ that gave birth to you!"

The two started to throw punches then, and Desmond snuck around them and burst out of the bathroom.

"Fight! Fight!" he shouted, pointing to the bathroom he'd exited. "Fight! Security!"

Abstergo agents and bouncers both came running to investigate, all focused on the bathroom as the two men who were throwing punches and engaged in their own wrestling match spilled out into the hall.

With everyone sufficiently distracted, Desmond slipped through the crowds to the now empty hall, and found the VIP suite unguarded.

"_You're really close now,_" Rebecca almost whispered. "_The power source should be in one of the rooms up here._" There was a pause as Desmond eased forward. "_Be careful._"

Stepping lightly but looking like he still belonged, Desmond approached the wide windows that were of the VIP. But something was wrong. One of the lights was swinging. Overhead lights _didn't_ swing. Not unless something _hit_ them. Looking with his Eagle Vision, Desmond could already see the highlights of blood. Lots of blood. Bodies were on the ground. The VIP, his staff, and running towards the window was the trophy wife. Two shots from inside echoed, and the woman screamed as blood ejected from her front as she slammed against the window, already dead. Desmond stepped back, eyes narrowing, calculations and theories flashing through his mind, the dominant one being _Cross_!

Sure enough, the blond was in the room, stuffing the large power source into a fanny pack of all things, likely to keep his hands free.

The sleeper agent saw Desmond, and raised his gun, but Desmond was already rushing forward and ducking under the window as it blew out above him. Cross leapt over the wall, through the shattered fragments, and took off down the hall, throwing his gun aside. The crowd behind him, who had been watching the fight from the bathroom, turned, startled, and the crowd ahead, who had turned at the gunshots, screamed and started to run.

"Jesus Christ!" Cross shouted in English. "Stop screaming! Shut up! Shut up!"

Desmond took off in an instant, Rebecca already yelling in his ear. "_Hurry Desmond! If he gets away with the artifact, we're _screwed_! You can't let that happen!_"

"Already on it!" he shouted back. With everyone screaming and running, it was hard to keep track of anything, but Desmond's forensic Eagle Vision had no problem following the glowing blood trail of Cross and the blood of all those people that were on his clothes. God how many were there? A half dozen? No time to think about that.

Naturally, to make life more interesting, the Abstergo check points were trying to maintain crowd control _and_ shelter Cross's escape. Crowd control was a bitch, however, and Desmond was able to sneak past the first checkpoint easily. The second was harder because Abstergo was getting more organized, and Desmond ended up taking down one of the agents in one smooth motion as he kept blending with the crowd, none the wiser as they all ran for cover.

"_The garden, Desmond. Head for the garden! Cross is probably looking for a way out of here and is just as blocked in as you!_"

"Got it!"

Desmond raced towards a small out of the way door that most of the panicked crowd didn't notice and stepped through, controlling his breath and crouching down into the bushes. It was a small garden, walled off and still part of the stadium and probably what the VIP used for functions that required more elegance and less violent boxing. He took a moment to simply control his breath, come down off the adrenaline pumping viciously through his veins, and just remain calm. That had been terrifying. Desmond had _never_ faced down a gun before, not unless you counted Cross being an idiot in New York and walking right up to him. And he'd _certainly_ never been fired at.

But at this point, Desmond was an expert in compartmentalizing, and he only needed a few seconds to bury the terror back down and start easing further into the garden.

"I fucked up Warren... I fucked up..."

Bingo. There was Cross. Desmond could see the neon bright glare of the blood splattered on his shirt, pants, and face. No wonder he was hiding here. He looked like he'd just exited a slaughterhouse. There was no way Cross could go out to the streets and get away, he'd be spotted easily.

"Ran out of bullets!" Cross shouted. "Can you believe that shit? _Out_ of fucking _bullets_! He almost had me... _Jesus_!"

Really? Desmond certainly didn't think so. Between that and Cross practically giving his gun away in New York, Desmond had to wonder how much combat experience Cross even had. He was _the_ Assassin right? Why was he making such rookie mistakes?

"What do you mean, _calm down_?" Cross growled. "I _am_ calm. I'm _fine_. I am _a-o-fucking-kay_!"

Desmond hoped War_den_'s eardrum blew out for that.

"Sorry. Sorry," Cross said more quietly. "Got a little, uh... you know. I'm on edge man. _Always_ on edge. Losing my goddamn mind..."

Desmond frowned. That sounded like the Bleeding Effect. Did Cross get thrown into the Animus? Was that why he was so unstable? Why he vacillated from being _The_ Assassin to making such _novice_ mistakes? That his judgment was compromised? What the _hell_ had Abstergo done to him?

"_Of course_ I have it," Cross barked into the phone, pulling out the power source. "Wonder what it does... Why do you think they're after these?"

Wouldn't you like to know? Desmond kept easing forward.

"Right. Good idea. Soon as I get back. Just a few hours inside. It'll help. It always helps..."

Inside? The _Animus_? Desmond shook his head, feeling great pity for Cross. The Animus wouldn't help. It would only make things worse. And the longer Cross was subjected to it, the worse it would be. Being so unstable, it was only a matter of time.

"Alright. I'll wait here for evac."

"_What's wrong with him?_"

Desmond couldn't answer. He just shook his head.

Cross hung up his cell and started pacing in agitation. "I need to kill that bastard... ...get out of my head Kenya... ... she keeps saying they can _stop_ it and then _this_ happens... Have to find a way to keep it under control.. ...goddamn Assassins..."

With Cross distracted, feeling safe, and distinctly unstable, Desmond crept forward on silent feet and wrapped his arm around Cross's neck. Cross tried to take a breath, but Desmond's grip and chokehold were too strong. The sleeper agent passed out and Desmond set him down gently. He felt too much pity. "The Animus will kill you," Desmond said softly as he took the power source and put it in his backpack. "The Bleeding Effect will get worse and worse, you'll have less and less control, and then you'll be nothing but an amalgamation of all the people you've been." Desmond lightly put his hand on Cross's forehead. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Desmond's hand lingered too long, however, and an Abstergo agent spotted him.

"There he is!" he shouted in Portuguese.

"_Better move! Head for the metro. I'll hold the train for you!_"

Desmond easily leapt the fence to the street and took off. He may not know the city like the back of his hand like most of his ancestors did, but Desmond knew how to duck through alleys. Once he'd broken Abstergo's line of sight it was easy to duck through the alleys, find a dark corner, pull out a different hoodie, this one slate gray with a local college logo on it, and blend back into the crowds. He took a different metro, much to Rebecca's consternation, and walked calmly through the streets, back to their tiny room. It was close to dawn when he arrived, and the van was already packed, and they started the long drive back to Rio. Desmond settled himself in back and nodded off to sleep.

On the plane home, Desmond found himself sitting with Rebecca, Shaun and William further back on the plane. Rebecca had the aisle and Desmond was squashed in the middle, but Desmond noticed that Rebecca was more wired and twitchy than he'd ever seen her before.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

"Hm?" she turned, eyes bright with tears. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Eeeeehn, wrong," he replied. "Try again."

She let out a long sigh and choked out a sob. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take," she said softly, leaning into him so that they could talk without anyone overhearing. "Cross shot at you. He almost killed you."

And still grieving Lucy, that would have destroyed Rebecca. Desmond sighed.

"I'm not going anywhere, remember? My specialty is laying around in the Animus."

"I know. I _know_, but I need a break. _Something_. But we're too far into this to back out now."

Desmond let out a long breath. "We're all suffering from Lucy's death," he said softly, looking down to his left hand that even now held the hidden blade. The hand that killed her. "You're lucky. You've had time with Shaun and my dad. You've had time to talk and recover. For me, it feels like last week." He shook his head. "I never even got to go to her funeral."

"I know," Rebecca replied. "You had it worse by far, ending up in the coma and all. But I'm just..."

"Lost. Feel alone. Want to run away, scream, hide, cry, anything. But instead you have to deal with pressure and performance. The fate of all this resting on our little merry band, and we don't have the time to just cry in a corner."

Rebecca let out a low chuckle. "Yeah. That. _God_, why can't _Shaun_ get it like you do?"

"Because he's _Shaun_," he replied lightly. "Mr. Hide-Behind-Sarcasm-And-Everything's-Fine."

"But he shouldn't have to do that to _me_."

Desmond raised a brow. "We know how _you're_ dealing with this, but have you thought about what Shaun might need from you?"

Rebecca offered an angry glare in response.

"You keep talking about wanting your needs met," Desmond said softly, "and _yes_ you need them met. There's no denying that. But you've been wallowing in your grief for so long, have you thought about what maybe Shaun needs? Why he's resorting to so much sarcasm and wit? He's grieving too."

"But I... I just..." Rebecca pulled away and stood up. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said. Then she stalked away, a lot on her mind.

Desmond waited a moment, then went in the opposite direction for the other bathrooms. He stared at himself in the mirror, glaring at himself, angry, and so very, very sad. He didn't want to talk about Lucy. Lucy _hurt_. But just as Rebecca needed to talk, maybe he did to. He dug out his phone and went through the menus to find the recording program he'd used before.

"Okay, uh... it's been a few weeks since the last recording. Sorry about that."

Desmond chuckled at his awkward intro to himself.

" 'course I... guess it's just a few seconds for you. A leap down the playlist... hum. Anyway... uh, I think I was talking about Clay... uh, Kazcmarek, Subject 16." Ergh, this wasn't easy. "So, when I fell into a coma back in Italy, and woke up in the Animus black room... it was uh..." what was a good word for that small island in the back of his mind...? "so calming... it felt like I... like I had woken up into a dream, a haze... a dream where none of this mess had ever happened... felt like I should be getting ready for another day of pouring drinks at Bad Weather, and uh, another day of complaining about being between girlfriends, and wondering what the hell to do with myself..."

A moment where Abstergo, the Animus, the Assassins, it was all a bad dream and he just needed to get back to work. "But, uh, when I saw Clay... just sitting there, it- it started to come back, you know, piece by piece... and... when he told me about Lucy I... fuck, you know... it- it hurt... you know, realizing that I killed her, without thinking or feeling anything."

It hurt so _damn_ much. It _still_ hurt so _damn_ much. It hadn't stopped or went away. It was still a black hole, eating away. But it was time to move on.

It was time that at least his father _really_ understood what had happened. Not about seeing Lucy's future, but _how_ that was possible in the first place.

"Not at the time, anyway... well the things just kept piling on... with more memories of Ezio, and Altaïr, and the First Civilization and then... right before he vanished, Clay passed on his memories."

Perhaps the most bizarre thing to have happened in the Animus. Proof that DNA could be viewed by someone else. "To me... he showed me everything _he_ had seen, and lived through... and it was... it was brief but overwhelming. Not really sure how to explain..."

How _does_ one explain another's life and feelings so clearly without living it? The old proverb of not judging someone till you walked a mile in their shoes was so very true.

"He saw glimpses of Adam and Eve, and their escape from Slavery... he saw the beginning and the end of the war between the First Civ and humans... he saw Minerva and Juno, and Tinia trying to work out their... their calculations. At least that's what they called them. They had these tools... these powerful machines... that could predict _possible futures_... not what was _going_ to happen, but what uh... What _could_ happen... probabilities. And... well, they spent a lot of energy trying to figure out what was the most likely scenario for the future. Their's and ours."

Desmond bit back a wave of bitterness. "And in the end I guess they figured I was their most likely candidate... some guy named Desmond, living at the beginning of the twenty-first century of the Common Era... but which Desmond was the right one? Because, you see, probability is a weird thing... it can branch out in so many ways... which version of me did they need? Was it the Desmond who got married early and had a son... the one who stayed single in New York... or was it the Desmond who moved to San Francisco to be a waiter... maybe it was a Desmond who worked at an auto body shop in Chicago... or, or... maybe it was the me who never ran away from his parents in the first place."

Desmond had seen all those possible futures, all the variations from what the Clay had passed on. They were all safely partitioned away. And he would _never_ access that partition ever again.

"The First Civ had countless variations to chose from but... in the end... the lucky one was _me_. I'm the Desmond their best calculations spit out... I'm the Desmond they left their messages for... and I guess I have to live with that honor. What an honor..."

Desmond bit back a yawn. "I'm pretty tired... uh... there'll be more later. Ciao."

He returned to his seat. Rebecca hadn't come back yet, and despite Desmond's resolve to stay awake for flying, he just fell asleep.

It was a quiet journey back to the cave. Both Desmond and Rebecca were in depressed states after such a long talk about grief and Lucy, and Shaun kept tiptoeing around Rebecca, not wanting to do anything wrong. William seemed to file it all under Useless Emotion and ignored them so that he could get back to work. Once they had slid down into the massive cavern, Rebecca shivered.

"Am I the only one who thinks we should buy a few space heaters? Maybe a couple more coats too? It's _cold_ down here." She shivered again. "I sort of figured that as we powered the place up it'd run on its climate control system or something." She shivered _again_. "Guess not. Maybe the First Civvies like it this way? All I know is I _don't_. So I'd _really_ like for us to pick up some sort of heating solution the next time we head out. _Please_!"

Shaun blinked, then turned. "If you can wait for tomorrow, I'll head out then. For now, a standard fire pit will have to suffice."

"As long as this isn't permanent," Rebecca nodded. "I'd hate to think how it will be once temps drop below freezing."

"Not a problem."

"For now," William kept striding forward, "let's settle back in."

"Right," Rebecca nodded. "We can get back to Connor whenever you're ready, Desmond," she said. "Unless you want to plug in the power source first? Up to you."

"Proper meal and sleep first. We can plug in tomorrow _then_ get to Connor."

* * *

The next morning, Desmond woke to Shaun and Rebecca chatting by the fire.

"I'm _telling_ you, there's something down there..."

"Don't be daft," Shaun replied. "Seventy-thousand years, remember?"

"I don't know," Rebecca shook her head. "Maybe they were sleeping or something and we woke them up. Some kind of... cryogenics. Or hibernation. I mean, how much do we know what the hell they were doing down here?"

"They were working on a bunch of different solutions," Desmond replied, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "But nothing worked. Just went from one to the next. And then... I don't know. They must have left at some point. After the end..."

Rebecca looked down to her frying pan and omelet. "I wonder what the world would be like if they'd succeeded..."

"I'm more concerned about what it'll be like if we _don't_," Shaun said quietly.

"..._salvation... they found a way..._" All three looked up, startled at Juno's voice. "..._too late for them... but not for you... sealed... to protect it... though now it bars your way... find the key... the past will tell..._"

There was a flicker, and static-filled image, and then a hologram of Juno stood before them. "_Hurry. Why do you delay? If you do not retrieve the key in time, all the _world_ will perish, and you with it. Yet you stop to talk. Or rest. Rest _later_. When your work is done. If I seem aggressive, if my words feel more imperative than request, it is because I fear that you will not succeed in time. And then all of us are doomed._" And with a flicker, she was gone.

"...Right, if this was October, I'd give old Juno here the prize for best Haunted Cavern," Shaun stood stiffly. "Heaven forbid we eat or drink or get more power sources, no, the key is the key," he grumbled as he marched off. "I'm off for a supply run."

"Er, um.." Rebecca scrambled for a topic of conversation to distract from that scary intrusion by a long dead One Who Came Before. "Hey, we were talking about grief and Lucy. I hope it's not uncomfortable for me to ask but... what happened with Lucy?"

Desmond looked down. "I don't know... Not in words I can explain."

"I'm sorry," Rebecca looked back to her omelet and dishing it onto a plate. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, it's fine," Desmond said. While Rebecca sat with her omelet, he started to make his own. "I really don't know. I was talking to my dad about it. I think I... let her in." Desmond shook his head. "No. That's not right... It wasn't her, not exactly. It was more like... a program. Does that sound weird? This Juno here, I think it's _her_ somehow. But the Juno in Rome? Definitely a program. It showed me things."

Rebecca sipped her coffee. "What did you see?"

Desmond looked up to the ceiling and the lacquered stone bubbling down from it. "That if I didn't stop Lucy, Abstergo would get the Apple and we'd all be dead."

Rebecca looked away. "I still don't understand why she turned on us..."

"I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing," Desmond replied. Even as she doubted herself, she kept doing what she thought was right. That much, he was certain of. Breakfast remained quiet, and Desmond noticed his father by the Animus, tapping away at his tablet.

Stomach full, Desmond stood and stretched. "Time to find the plug."

William walked over. "Remember to keep in contact."

Desmond shrugged. He wanted to make a sarcastic comment about how none of them were able to keep up, but he'd realized that that was true. His father, while clearly fit, was older, more delicate. And Shaun made no secret that his specialty was computer databases, not running around "willy-nilly". Rebecca would probably keep up with him, except Juno had her too scared.

Only Lucy would have joined him.

Desmond bit back his feelings and looked to where the door had opened the last time he'd plugged in a power source.

"Alright then." He double checked his equipment, tapped his feet further into his shoes, and started off.

He was barely a few feet in, eyes already following the dilapidated and crumbling stairs up when Juno appeared.

"_What is a fact?_" she asked. "_Is it fixed? Immutable? Certain in its existence and only awaiting discovery?_" Around her patterns and equations he couldn't read floated in space, the same orangy color as her hologram.

"_Or might it be changed? Here we learned the answer,_" the globe of the Apple suddenly floated to Desmond's left, almost as large as him, "_and thought that it might save us._" The Apple shrunk and was held up by someone who looked like Tinia, Jupiter, whom Desmond had met at the end of Ezio's journey. Beams of light arced down from the Apple to humans who dully walked by.

"_They were used to command. To control. To own,_" Juno said coldly and contemptuously. The walking humans disappeared and instead were replaced with humans kneeling before the Apple, staring down to the ground. "_But we soon discovered another use. When enough sat in thrall and were told to believe, their thoughts took on form. What was imagined became real._" Juno paused and let that thought sink in.

Was she talking about noetics? Like in that '09 Dan Brown book _The Lost Symbol_, that had so many experiments on human thought controlling reality that were crazily _real_? Where the ultimate goal was to do things like will away cancer? Shit, Desmond had thought that was a bunch of science fiction!

"_If a hundred minds could wish away a wall or create a tree,_" Juno posited, "_what might a thousand do? Ten thousand? _More_?_" Juno walked around a fountain of light, eyes hungry. "_Might we change the consensus and will the threat away?_" The fountain of light disappeared, leaving the earth spinning and a single light shining brightly above it. "_We resolved to send one into the sky where it illuminate us all. Once placed, a sentence would be uttered._"

She looked to Desmond, then watched as the light rose and what looked like the sun in the distance burned.

"_Make us safe._"

Looking back to Desmond, Juno continued. "_In this way, we would change the consensus. We would save the world_." She started to pace. "_But it never came to be_." More lights joined the first around the Earth. "_We sent a dozen of them skyward - but there was no way to maintain _control_. To direct the beam. To _enthrall_ the _world_._" She stopped and turned to him, saying softly, "_To speak the words._" The Earth disappeared. "_Though this was strange and dangerous - what we tried next was worse..._"

And just like that, all the holograms were gone.

"Just great," Desmond muttered.

Ascending the flights of stairs required lots of leaping forward, as the millennia had broken every flight down to almost ruin. Desmond constantly leapt gaps, trying to avoid the unstable parts where he could, until he reached another landing, where he stopped for a small breather.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, as Juno once again appeared.

"_Our first instance was to travel back,_" she said, her orange hologram stepping forward. "_To change the past. But we could not find a way,_" she looked aside. "_But forward… We _could_ look forward..._

"_And so here we sought to see beyond ourselves,_" she gestured to a large globe that was encircled by the patchy stairs Desmond had been climbing, "_and know what was to come._"

Juno disappeared and reappeared behind Desmond, making him jump. "_First we watched to learn if our work would succeed. But the answer was always the same._" Within the globe, the earth burned. Juno turned to Desmond and pointed.

"_So we moved on to other things, but _she_ remained._" Behind Desmond another orange hologram appeared, one Desmond knew very well from Ezio's memories. "_The one you call Minerva._" Juno reappeared higher on the stairs. "_In time she too stopped looking - and instead began to speak._" Before Minerva, Ezio appeared, and Desmond recognized the scene so very well. From the slightest shift of Ezio's weight, his confused glancing around, Desmond knew this scene. He'd already lived it, as Ezio had.

Juno continued. "_She called out across time in the hopes that you might be saved. She hid messages where none might find them, save for you and those within this place..._" and Juno gestured grandly once more to the sphere.

Desmond narrowed his eyes. She was so magnanimous in her presentation. So... robotic. Desmond didn't trust it. Something about all this was _wrong_. He was following her trail of breadcrumbs, but there was no sign of Minerva's workings or Tinia's. This was all supposed to be towards saving the world, but how? Why explain all this and not how the solar flare would be stopped? Why the history lessons?

"_Fascinating,_" William murmured over the radio. Desmond glanced down through the stairs and saw his father and Rebecca at the base looking up.

Desmond's frown deepened. "I'm tired of it," he growled as the hologram faded. "The cryptic warnings. The threats." He looked up and around as if Juno would simply appear. "Just _tell_ us what you _want_!"

"_But they are,_" William replied. "_'We saw the Nephilim there. We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them,'_" William quoted. "_Imagine trying to explain this to a two-year-old. To a _grasshopper_. When they said the will of the gods was unknowable, they meant it. Literally._"

Desmond shook his head. Yes, his father had a point. How did one explain how a clock worked to a toddler, or how books worked to the illiterate, but that wasn't the point. Juno was leading them by the nose and there was no guarantee this wouldn't end up like...

Like...

Desmond sighed, staring at the broken, cracked stairs. "I killed her, you know," he said softly. "I killed Lucy."

And that _hurt_.

William attempted to be consoling. "_It was the Apple, son. It was Juno_."

"I _saw_ what she was. What would happen if I let her live." Why didn't they understand? "I could have stopped myself. I mean... there was a _force_ there. But I didn't _have_ to. I _chose_ to. I _chose_ to kill the one person who was keeping me sane. Because she was vacillating and her not choosing would be the ruin of us all."

"_Desmond..._"

"Lucy was going to betray us and take the Apple back to Abstergo. I _saw_ the satellite launch. I _saw_ them turn it on. And then... it failed..." Just as it had for Those Who Came Before.

Desmond looked back up the stairs, eyes narrowed. "Whatever's on the other side of that door, it benefits _Juno_. We _need_ to be careful."

"_We will be,_" Rebecca replied.

Desmond wasn't convinced, but he nodded anyway. He climbed to the next landing and found a massive opening to a new area. Stairs lead down to rubble, so Desmond continued forward, watching his balance as the floor and the entire structure seemed to be tilting down to the rubble below. He made his way around a large central structure, with closed off doors and broken walkways, but he noticed one down below appeared to still be open. Being unable to drop from here, he back tracked to the dilapidated stairs and carefully made his way down to the rubble and to a clear hallway which had the door he had spied.

Inside was more age and rubble, but above he could see a hole in the wall that lead to another room. He climbed up, watching all his hand holds in the ancient stone, and then climbed another wall to another hole.

Finally up and once more on the tilted floor, he had a clear path to the next power station.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, pulling out the cube and sticking it inside the opening designed for it. There was deep rumbling, and Desmond watched as the walkway on the other side of the gate extended. "I wonder what stories the Temple will tell next?"

After all that climbing, Desmond was ready for a proper lunch, and was frying some hot dogs when Shaun finally returned from his supply run. His arms were loaded with various necessities, and he was depositing them around the campsite when Rebecca wandered over with a growling stomach.

"Food!" she smiled, snatching from the plate of cooked hot dogs Desmond had already finished.

Shaun dug through his bags and tossed over some hot dog buns, muttering about unhealthy American food.

"So," Rebecca said, biting into her lunch, "what's the latest? Learn anything else interesting while you were exploring?"

Desmond shook his head. "Just what we've already talked about. They were working on some weird stuff towards the end. Trying to engineer new bodies and store their minds inside computers."

"Failure after failure," Rebecca shook her head. "It must have been hard for them..."

"Oh yes, it's always hard for the master," Shaun groused. "Remember, we were their slaves. Hard for them, yes, but we had it worse."

"Doesn't matter," Rebecca replied. "They had survival in mind just like us now. Does that make us any different?"

"I worry about it too," Desmond switched topics. "I mean, they say there's something in here that'll help us. Or, Minerva and Tinia did. Juno... I think she's talking about something else. But what is it? Why is it locked up if it's exactly what we need?"

"I don't know," Rebecca sipped her soda. "Maybe it's dangerous. Maybe they wanted to make sure only _you_ could reach it."

Desmond frowned. "That's another question... What makes _me_ so special?"

"I guess we'll know once we open the door."

Shaun continued puttering with supplies before he brought over his laptop and settled in to eat the "unhealthy American food" with lots of ketchup and relish. Rebecca and Desmond chuckled.

William stalked over, staring at something on his tablet, likely dragged over by the smells of Desmond's cooking. "It's been a long time since we've been in the Animus. I'd like to get to that once we're done eating."

That was perhaps the most polite order to get back to work Desmond had ever heard from his father.

"Sure," Desmond replied, pulling out a bag of chips that Shaun had gotten. "After lunch."

After that they were munching away quietly, absorbed in food.

"Huh. Look at that!" Shaun sat back with his tea. "I've found a third power source!"

Desmond blinked. "Already?"

"It popped up in an earlier search," Shaun explained, turning the screen around, "but I've only just managed to confirm it."

"Where?"

"There's a museum in Cairo with one on display."

"Cairo?" Rebecca asked. "Aren't they protesting their new President? Morsi just gave himself unlimited power, right? This will be dangerous."

Desmond glanced to the Animus, and imagined the noose around his neck that Connor had just survived. He wasn't looking forward to "healing" from that. "I guess Connor will have to wait."

"No," William disagreed, setting down his coffee. "You three stay. We need to find that key and time is running out. Not only do we need to get in, we need to figure out how to use whatever's in here assuming it's not something for Juno as you're worried. I'll make the trip."

"Alone?" Desmond asked skeptically.

"Wouldn't be the first time. Doubt it will be the last."

"What about Cross?"

William smiled almost softly, stepped forward, and put his hand reassuringly on Desmond's shoulder. "Everything's going to be fine. I'll be back soon."

It wasn't until Desmond was back in the Animus that he realized that William hadn't answered his question.

* * *

A warm, strong hand touched his shoulder, held it against all his pain, and he felt safe with that strong hand, and he slept.

Waking varied: from the feelings of intense panic, the sense of pressure on his neck and life being squeezed out of him; to the sickly sense of fever and pain, hazy images of retching and that strong hand on his forehead; to the dull misery of his cell and the lessons he had learned in there, about the Creed, about principle, about Stone Coats; to the vivid memory of chasing after Hickey, determined that Washington the slave owner would live so that the infant revolution would have a chance, that the _atenenyarhu_, the Templars, would fail, that _Charles Lee_ would fail.

And then, at last, he awoke in a bed, sheets twisted about his ankles, curled on his side with his arm tightly bound to his torso. He was in a bed, in a tiny room, a desk at the foot of the bed and a chair at his head. And in the chair was Achilles, reading a book. Vague memories of a strong hand flittered in his mind, and he realized whose it was.

And he realized, no matter how strained their relationship, he felt safe in the presence of this man. He smiled, and fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, a white man with a thick beard dripping from his chin was leaning over him. He blinked slowly, utterly still, uncertain at the new face.

"He's awake, Master Davenport," the man said said, turning and leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton's line of sight. Achilles entered his line of vision, his face old and weathered, the look of exhaustion exaggerating his features. Would his _raké:ni_ have done this? The question entered his mind so suddenly he felt his chest tighten, too many emotions being triggered by the question. He fought for stillness, thinking of wood, hard and unyielding but with a deep system of roots, a soft center deep inside. Like his mother. Perhaps even...

That wouldn't help.

He managed to control himself, and looked at the Old Man again.

"A week," the old man said, answering the question before Connor could even think to ask it.

"... What happened?"

And Achilles went into a clinical but detailed account of recent events: of Tallmadge seeing Connor's arrest and immediately sending a letter to Rockport while concurrently making as much noise as he could about the turn of events to cast doubt, of Achilles rallying the assassins and – with Faulkner out to sea and no ships in port – going tediously over the land route to get to New York as quickly as possible and assess the information, spying on the Templars as they slowly gathered at Fort George and debating their plans and, at the last possible minute, learning about the switch of identities and the execution. Duncan had broken into the jail to pass word, and instead reported Connor's severely weakened condition, changing already last minute plans and struggling to make it all work. Clipper and Stephane gave rousing accounts of Achilles' leadership when they came in, marveling at the Old Man's ability to make snap decisions and work around an ever changing environment.

"Currently we are in Bellevue Hospital," Achilles said, "two miles north of the city line. Your arm was infected, and it was decided to quarantine you away from the city. Jamie Colley here's been looking after you. It seems infection and disease are his specialty."

"Good to see you recovered," the bearded man said, nodding before leaving to check on other patients.

"He's a good boy," Achilles said, "Good hearted and with an even temper."

Connor, admittedly, had only half heard the explanation. He was too busy looking at the heavy bags under the Old Man's eyes, listening to a voice even thinner than usual, and the heavy leaning on his cane even as he sat.

"_Niá:wen, Roiá:ner_," he said softly. "I did not understand until now."

"English, Connor," Achilles said. "I don't understand a word you say."

But Ratonhnhaké:ton had fallen asleep again, content with what he had learned and what he had realized. Haytham Kenway was still a complicated knot of feelings, but in Achilles at least, Connor felt certain about one thing: the old man cared. He, too, was wood, like _Ista_, and he felt safe knowing that. For once, he felt no anxiety, and he slept.

His peace did not last long, though, as he dreamed of Hickey's death, his time in prison, and his ordeal. He awoke with a start, and he realized belatedly that he did not have his dream snare. Connor did not even want to think about his future, and what he would need to do to make good fortune favor his dreams again. He glanced at the Old Man, still at his head, sitting with his bad leg lifted up and resting on his bed. It was the dead of night, everything grey-blue with the moonlight.

"... What do you do about the dreams?" he asked softly.

Achilles was awake, unruffled by a question in the middle of the night. "Everyone deals with them differently," he replied. "My old mentor Ah Tabai said that dreams were as diverse as the people who had them, and he said that culture could only bring so much solace. I didn't learn that lesson fully until much, much later. After Shay. After the war."

Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard the names before, Achilles always spoke of the old Order anonymously, briefly, with as little detail as possible without softening the horror that the old war had brought. He pursed his lips in curiosity even as his tiredness threatened to pull him back to sleep. Achilles, eyes ever sharp, put a strong hand on Connor's shoulder. "Rest, boy. I'll guard against your dreams a while longer."

It was the best night sleep he had during his recovery.

But, at last he sat up. It was July 9th now, and Achilles very simply asked if he was strong enough to stand.

Connor managed to get his feet under him; he swayed slightly but remained upright.

"Good," the Old Man said. "There's something you need to witness. Duncan's been watching the Colonists, and there's to be an event this afternoon. Word's come from Philadelphia and Commander Washington is going to make it public."

"... I do not understand."

"Nobody does, but given the current circumstances, there are a couple of options it could be; and if Washington is making it public, that narrows it down even further. Come, boy, let's get you to Broad Street."

Connor dressed slowly in borrowed clothes that fit him poorly, and he realized he could not button up his shirt and coattails up to his neck, the sensation of cloth so close reminding him too much of earlier memories. His breath caught in his chest, and he left his chest bare well below his collarbone. Achilles offered no comment, not even a glance, and hobbled his way out of the hospital, and to an awaiting carriage. Connor got in slowly, surprised at how weak he felt, and Achilles entered with him, and they road back into the city, to a broad park on a hill, near a place called Trinity College, according to the Old Man. Connor learned that there had once been a base here, on the west side of the city, and that they would spend the rest of Ratonhnhaké:ton's recovery there before heading back to Rockport.

The Colonial soldiers – Connor could only think of them as Americans – were all gathered, in mismatched colors and clothes, seven thousand men from many colonies, and Washington, larger than life, stood at the head on a platform. For the first time they looked like an _army_, standing shoulder to shoulder and backs as straight as any regular. Civilians were pressed all together, rich and poor alike, to bear witness to whatever was about to transpire.

And then, with a nod from the commander, a man with a roll of paper stepped forward, and the crowds hushed, and the silence settled over minds as well as mouths, eyes glued to the man with the paper, and expectation began to arise.

"As ordered by the commanding general," the man said, "this army will now hear the Declaration as approved by the Continental Congress on July fourth, the year of our Lord seventeen seventy-six."

He paused, and Connor's eagle saw a swell of emotion on the orator's face. He took a breath, and began to read.

"In Congress, July Fourth, Seventeen Seventy-six. The unanimous declaration of the thirteen United States of America,

"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

"That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and sappiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.

"Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these States. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world."

And thus began the recitation of sins of Parliament to the colonies: from taxation to dissolution of governing bodies, to instilling judges without the consent of the people, to massing armies, repurposing trials, taking away Colonial charters. Nothing was spared, everything was outlined in detail. The entire field was gripped by the document, hanging on every word, nodding and cheering or clapping a hand. The case of independence was outlined thoroughly, succinctly, and even eloquently. The reader finished his reading with the most powerful of statements.

"Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

"We, therefore, the representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the supreme judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by authority of the good people of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united Colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent States, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."

"It's quite impressive, what you've accomplished," Achilles said, barely audible over the cheers and applause of the Congress' declaration of independence. Connor turned to the Old Man, surprised, uncertain how such a rousing document generated such an out of place sentence. Did he think Ratonhnhaké:ton somehow responsible for this document? How? It was the work of the people, of Sam Adams and his cousin John and Hancock and all the men from the other Colonies – no, the other States. Achilles had once compared Ratonhnhaké:ton's struggle with that of the states, of the desire to be free and safe; and now it was outlined in black and white, published for all the states to see, all the British Empire to see. Connor had little to do with any of it; it was the will of the people that had created this event.

But, then, too, Ratonhnhaké:ton had survived many trials and tribulations, as the Americans had. His mettle had been tested, with harder and harder trials, if his most recent ordeal was any indication. He reached up briefly to touch his neck, still feeling the sensation of a rope, still feeling his life ebbing away. Was Achilles actually praising him? Was this...

"Is that... a compliment?" he asked, a little bewildered.

The Old Man snorted. "Now don't misconstrue. I'm sure the whole endeavor will end tragically. Your goals are too high and too idealistic for the world we live in. But to have come this far..." his voice trailed off, his eyes far away. "Three high ranking Templars are dead because of you, and by some miracle you are still alive. More still, you yet remain untainted by the world you are forced to live in. Well, it's more than I ever expected. This," he added, gesturing to the crowds, to the applause and the cheers still ringing around them, people weeping in joy for their independence. "This, too, is more than I ever expected."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "The people yearned for freedom, but feared to grab hold of it. That fear is gone now."

"Thanks to you."

"No," Connor rebuffed. "This they did on their own."

Achilles shook his head. "You diminish your role," he said, leaning on his cane heavily. "You were instrumental in the dumping of the tea in Boston, you helped that silversmith ride out to Lexington and Concord, gave ample warning to Sam Adams and his cohort, helped in Breed's Hill, and saved Washington's life, but still you fail to see the value you have brought to this struggle. But you've always been of humble heart."

Ratonhnhaké:ton still did not see. "I do what is right. No more. No less. If a person sees wrongdoing and does nothing, how can they call themselves a person?"

Achilles said nothing, and they watched the crowds together in silence for a time, before Achilles motioned for the buggy to move on. They moved west, deep into the city, and to a nondescript building. The second floor was empty of most furniture, a few covered chairs and some wrapped paintings and little else. Duncan was there, looking out a window for signs of pursuit. Stephane was at the hearth of course, already cooking something, and Clipper was nowhere to be seen. Connor was exhausted, even that small excursion tiring him, and he immediately went to sleep in a dusty, moldy bed.

Two hours later they sat around a weathered table, two rabbits split between all of them, stale bread and seeds. Connor found he could eat very little before he felt full, and he pushed a half eaten plate back on the table. Clipper, the youngest of a large family, snatched it up greedily.

"It sure was something," he said with a full mouth. "Watchin' the crowds, seeing everyone all happy-like. Ain't never seen nothing like that before. Ain't never heard nobody claim independence neither."

"It's a piece o' history, at that," Duncan said, drinking his rum. "I'm not as learned as I ought ta be, but I don't think there's ever been a colony that just ups and declares their independence. Would you know, Achilles?"

"Two, that I know of," Achilles said. "Scotland in 1320, though we've all seen how that played out, and the Netherlands in 1581. Both led to bloody internal wars where nothing changed. This is different only because we have an ocean between us and them, though history has the sad habit of repeating itself."

"You saying this won't amount to nothing?" Clipper asked.

"No," Achilles said. "It will most certainly amount to _something._ There is a war, after all, and civil wars like this always creates something. What I _am_ saying is that declarations of independence have yet to actually _create_ independence. Lofty ideals and flowery papers do little to change the world, and madness only follows those who think that it can."

"In that we disagree," Connor said carefully. He did not want to ruin the compliment he had received earlier, but the young native had at last pinpointed the great difference between he and the Old Man. "I understand that one person cannot change the world, but one person can change one person. If that happens, one at a time, and those people change others, and those people change still others, then something even as great as independence can be achieved. The ills of the world will not be changed overnight, but it can be pushed in the right direction, a little every day."

Achilles looked over the table at Connor, gaze intent.

Then, at length, he finally responded.

"Sometimes change comes too late."

"_Messieurs, s'il-vous plaît, pas maintenant_," Stephane said. "We 'ave good food, good rum, and we celebrate zhe return of Connor. Now is not zhe time for _un argument_."

"He's right about that," Duncan said. "The Lord's done his work for the day, let us be happy that it ended as well as it did." He fingered his beads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say in this chapter other than we are a hair's breadth away from copyright infringement of the highest degree with putting so much of the Declaration of Independence in the fic. It's just... the language is so beautiful and the build up to the actual declaration moves so smoothly. The waves that document makes throughout history (assuming that as Americans we aren't yet again conflating our own importance like American's seem to do) is amazing, and the power it has is palpable even today. There's a magic to it - or it feels like it sometimes - and we just wanted to add more and more... Please don't sue us, universe, our intentions are good and our money is nonexistent.
> 
> We also start setting up the next arc for Connor and Achilles: the break. Connor finally realizes how they are different and why the will disagree so bitterly, and it is concurrent to his realization that Achilles is as much as a father as Haytham is, perhaps even more so, and goes out of his way to thank him (alas, in his native tongue that Achilles doesn't understand), and that will build for quite a while. There's also the very first mention of Shay, but more on that MUCH later. We also cameo'ed Jamie, but more on him later.
> 
> But really, this chapter is about Desmond. It plays straight for the most part, this memory isn't as poignant as NY or as emotional as Italy, but it acts as a nice between-moment and sets up his pity for Cross that will come to a head in Italy. Also, we finally talk about what Desmond saw and felt before killing Lucy. We hinted at it in Revelations but could go into more depth here. And as a bonus we spun Rebecca's and Shaun's plates a little. And another recording, also played pretty straight.
> 
> Next chapter: Ellen. Big Dave. PTSD.


	18. Crossing the Delaware

For two weeks Connor rested and recuperated in the very small building. Stephane fed him little more than meat to get his strength up, Clipper was permanently stationed on the roof to prevent someone from entering unwanted, and Duncan was the designated errand runner. Achilles did very little, sitting in his chair and gaze indelibly locked onto one of the covered paintings. In time, however, Connor had enough strength to get up and move around, even with his arm bound tightly to his side.

Three months in prison had weakened him more than he could have realized, and his mind was as weak as his body. He was unable to wear shirts normally, always leaving them open to the ugly bruises on his neck. The reflection in the mirror caught him by surprise constantly, to see his face so bruised and his neck so ugly. His mind would swing back to the gallows, the sensation of a sack over his head, the desperate need for air. At odd times he would find himself staring out the window with no memory of how long he had been there, breathing quick and tight in his chest, sweating more than expected even in summer heat. Achilles was always at his side, saying nothing.

After a time, a woman came into the building, small with well-made clothes, with pins and needles and cloth and red lips. She measured out every inch of Connor, saying little until her work was done. "Your measurements are envious," she said finally, "I wish my husband had your frame. Your skin is harder to match, but the off-white your man insisted on will do nicely. Do you want red trim or blue? Both will make a statement, but I'd recommend blue, it's less striking and your man said you did your best work when no one noticed you. No order for socks, though. Why?"

Connor was helpless to the question, confused as to what was even happening. He glanced at Achilles.

"You'll have to forgive him," the Old Man said. "His clothes up to now have been hand-me-downs. He's never had a fitting."

The woman's eyes widened, and she looked at Connor as if in a new light. "You mean to say you've been standing here letting me measure you this way and that and you didn't even know what it was for?"

Connor shook his head, still uncomfortable with talking after the hanging. His voice was too hoarse.

"You've the patience of a _saint_," she said, packing her things. "Even my best customers don't like to stand so still, and _they_ know what's happening. You have my respect sir. I should have it all in for you in a week. It'll be a few all-nighters, but your man here is certainly paying well."

"... He is not 'my man'," Connor said, so softly he almost didn't hear himself. The woman didn't, sweeping up her things in a bundle and giving a sharp look to the girl she had brought with her. "Come along, Maria."

"Yes, Mother."

"Do you know what to do with these measurements?" she asked as they left the room.

"Take them to the wool market," the girl said, perhaps fourteen, "get the right bolts of color, and don't let Father see me doing work."

"Sh! Not in front of clients," the woman said, grabbing her daughter's arm and rushing further out. Their conversation waned as they exited down the stairs, and Connor watched them walk out onto the street.

Achilles watched as well. "She doesn't know it," he said, "But her mother outfitted us during the war. She's as gifted as her mother, and her passion shows through."

"You know her?"

"We've never met," Achilles said.

"... You are not 'my man'," Connor said again, voice still very soft.

"I'm nobody's man. Nobody belongs to anybody, be they slave or servant or son or woman. Language such as that is demeaning on such a subtle level that even well-meaning people like her don't realize the damage it does hearing it over and over. But she does not live in the same world as us; to her I am at best your servant and at worst your slave, because that's the world that she sees. It's the world that she lives in, that we all live in. Correcting her or every other person that ever says something like that is like trying to lift a mountain with your bare hands. There's no point."

"But there is," Connor said, watching the woman and her daughter dart through the crowds. "It has to start somewhere."

"Somewhere, yes," Achilles said, turning to leave. "But far better to start in a place that might lead somewhere. The world isn't interested in being saved, Connor, and will hate you for trying. Better to reach for something attainable. Like killing the Templars."

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, not wishing for an argument.

One thing that had changed for his time in prison: he learned when to push and when not to.

A week later the woman, Ellen, returned. Connor had regained much of his strength now, though his arm was still bound to his side. The doctor Jamie had said he was past further signs of infection, and had prescribed a stiff regiment of red meat to recoup from his blood loss. His nightmares were still strong, and he was burning for his dream snare, or to visit the medicine men of his village, or _something_ to make them stop. He had slowly gotten used to buttoning his shirts, but never to the top. Many of the bruises had faded; he was starting to look like himself.

Ellen, however, looked nothing like herself.

Her eye was black and swollen, and she wore a shawl even in the July heat. Connor looked at her very hard, remembering what her daughter had indiscreetly said before. His gaze turned to the daughter in askance, but she kept her gaze solidly on the floor.

"Perfect fit," she said finally, stepping back as Ratonhnhaké:ton finished changing. "You could wear anything and make it look good."

"... Do you need help?" he asked.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

"Do you need help?" he asked again, his eyes flicking to her injuries.

Her face went bright red, and she stormed out of the place with her daughter Maria in tow, forgetting completely to ask for payment. The daughter turned her eyes and gazed plaintively at Connor, but let herself be pulled away.

Two days later Achilles gave one last, significant stare at a painting, wrapped, before touching his hand to it and turning away. "We're leaving," he said finally.

It took another day to get the supplies, round up a wagon, and pack it up. Connor helped with some of the packages, feeling the pull of his muscles and testing the strength of his body. The summer would be long, but it would be fruitful, and that made him feel relief. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he smiled.

"Mister, mister!"

Duncan and Stephane looked up, Connor doing the same as a girl ran towards them from down the street. Ratonhnhaké:ton recognized her as the tailor's daughter, what was her name? An ugly welt disappeared into her hair line, and her face was white as Connor's new coat. She tripped, landing hard on the rough cobblestones, but she got up and kept moving. "My mother needs help!" she cried out, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized her cheeks were streaked with tears. "Please! Please help her!"

How could he ignore such a request? "Where is your mother?" he asked.

"Follow me!" she sobbed.

Ratonhnhaké:ton did so without thought, and was confused when a hand gripped his arm. He turned to see Achilles, that look in his eyes again, that look from under the gallows, and at last he understood it: worry, tinged with fear. He put a reassuring hand on the Old Man's grip. "I will be careful," he said quietly.

And the Old Man let go.

Clipper and Duncan flanked him as they followed the girl, Maria, that was her name, and darted down the narrow streets. Architecture in New York was distinctly different, the buildings more tightly packed, alleys and back ways narrower; the roofs were pitched different, with curious decorative flourishes on their front. Little of it entered the young native's mind, however, as they ran for perhaps ten minutes and came upon Maria's problem: her mother and a man were arguing, shouting really.

"Learn your place!"

"It's _my_ work that's made life so easy for you; I'm owed the right to make decisions in this house!"

"You're just a woman, you don't know anything!"

"I know you want to _bury_ us in debt, and I won't stand for it! I have a reputation to maintain! I have Maria to think about!"

"Good for nothing wench!"

And he grabbed her arm, holding her in place as the woman immediately raised her free hand to block an incoming strike. "Let... me... _go_!" she grunted, struggling against the man. His response was to strike her, Ellen's head snapping to the side and she staggering back. She was unable to fall with the iron grip on her arm, and the man pressed his advantage by shoving her brutally into a brick wall.

"Shut up!" the man shouted. "You know better than to mouth off to your betters! I'll have to learn you again!"

"Please step away from Miss Ellen," Connor said, his voice low and soft but _very_ dangerous.

The man turned, seeing three men spreading out to stop his intended violence, and merely scoffed. "Bugger off before I crack you one," he said.

"No."

"I guess you want a beating, then," the man said, at last letting go of Ellen, who slumped to the ground. Duncan moved to tend her, while Clipper gladly stepped up and raised his fists.

"Where I come from, you don't treat no lady like that."

"That harlot? That little bitch is my _wife_," the man spat. "What I do with her is my business."

Clipper answered by stepping into the other man's circle. The fight was brutally one-sided. Clipper was easily half the man's age, strong and fast and trained by Achilles and Connor, while the man was of middling age, poor shape, and too angry to even think about the fact that he was fighting. Clipper downed him in two strokes, and Connor moved in, standing over him with a menacing glare.

"Leave," he said, still soft and dangerous.

The man glared up at the native, eyes narrow and hateful, before scrambling to his feet and scurrying off.

The two looked to Duncan and the woman, but Ellen shrugged everything off, holding her arm stiffly. Blood was seeping from a lip and the bruise on her eye had grown in size. "That wasn't necessary," she said, her voice and body shaking. "I can handle myself. When he returns he'll try and give me twice the thrashing for this, it wasn't worth the reprieve."

"But _Mother_," her daughter started to say.

"No," Ellen said, hoarse from her argument. "This is _my_ house and business! It's _my_ tailoring that paid for the place. It's _mine_. I'll take his drunken buffoonery over leaving behind what _I_ built. A woman can't do half as much anywhere else, and I'll be damned if I let this slip away again, curses and all."

Connor took a long measure of the woman, holding herself so stiffly, so desperate to cling to what she considered hers. Her words told him something of the settler mindset, of why they held onto _things_ so desperately. He offered her an alternative. "If I told you there was another place where you could live and work, free of him. Would you consider it?"

Wary eyes snapped to him, face closed off, guarded. Maria, at her mother's side, immediately looked up to her with a wide open expression.

"The catch?" she asked slowly.

"No catch," Connor said softly. "Our village is growing and in need of all forms of trade. Just business and a new life."

Even defensive as she was, Connor could see her eyes dilate at the opportunity, her red lips pursing to prevent comment. She wanted it, wanted that idea, but did not trust it. Connor could not blame her, if her life had been so abused by her husband, and he simply waited, knew not to push.

"... Mother?"

An interminable pause, but then, "I'll come and see if what you say is true."

"Yes!" the daughter said, leaping up and down. "I'll get us packed. Mister, just bring your wagon here, it won't take long! Yes! _Yes!_"

Achilles took the news of a new homesteader like he took all similar news: it was a bother, another nuisance to interrupt his quiet. That did not stop him from insisting Connor sit in the front of the wagon with him as he drove. Stephane was thrilled at the idea of a tailor, giving many stories about the tears his shirt used to acquire when he was learning to cook, and the stains and soiling he often went through. Clipper talked of his mother's skills with needle and thread, and Duncan was already postulating how she would fit in with the other women.

What was a ten minute run was an hour drive, navigating crowds and other carriages. After that was two hours of loading bundles and bundles and _bundles_ of fabric; bolts and piles and baskets all; three mannequins; rolls of measuring tape; two bags of needles, thread, thimbles and scissors; dresses, coats, trousers, socks, all half formed; and a book that Ellen kept on her person at all times, filled with marks and notes and a tiny pencil sticking out. It ended with three bolts of fine silk: green, white, and blue. The wagon was too full to fit everyone, and it was too late in the day to find horses, and Achilles _firmly_ said he would not stay in that house for another night. There was no nearby inn with room for six people, and so Ellen offered her home. Dinner was a tense affair for Ellen, eyes constantly darting to the door, guard constantly up. Maria, twelve and precocious, chattered happily with four grown men.

"A new place to live!" she said excitedly. "What's it like? You said it's growing, so that means it's small, yes? How small? Where is it? Out west where the savages are? Will we have to worry about being scalped? Or is it down south? I hear slaves are everywhere there, what are they like? Will we get a mill? A horse? I've always wanted a horse, but Mother says we can't afford it and I know better than to ask Father. Is Father coming with us?"

"No, Maria," Ellen said in a tight voice, clearing plates, "and you need to learn to mind your tongue."

"But _you_ never mind your tongue, that's what Father says."

"Well _he_ doesn't know what he's talking about," she said in a bitter hiss before catching herself. "I'm sorry," she said to her guests. "That last thing you need is to hear about my dirty laundry."

"It's quite alright," Achilles said in his thin voice. "We all have stories, and the community is still small enough where we all know them. We have an abolitionist doctor, a couple drinking Scotsmen, a very nice couple that runs an inn – you'll be staying with them for a time – a depressed carpenter Son of Liberty, and a pair of farmers just starting their family. You also have them," he pointed to Connor and the others. "A former priest, a French cook, and a Virginian rifleman. And we have Connor, an Iroquois who runs the property, and myself, the owner of the land."

His gentle introduction eased Ellen's nerves even as young Maria's eyes doubled in size, and Connor braced himself for all the tired old corrections that he would have to make as the little girl's world view was changed drastically. Before he could even open his mouth, she asked, "Have you ever scalped anyone?"

… It was going to be a long night.

The next morning they were able to get their horses and began the long trek back to the homestead. The further and further they got from the city the more and more Ellen relaxed, and finally, three days out, she leaned back in the wagon and sighed. "I'm free," she whispered, soft enough that no one would hear it, save Connor and his keen ears.

Connor and Clipper took turns hunting, bringing back rabbits or squirrels or turkey for Stephane to pluck, skin and cook while Duncan handled setting up camp. Ellen surreptitiously laid claim on all furs when they were cured and ready, saying they would make excellent scarfs and coats for some of her clients in New York or England. She read to Maria at night, passages of the Bible that served whatever lesson she was trying to teach the child, and slept curled around her daughter and eyeing all the men she was with.

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the Old Man in askance one night, after she had fallen asleep.

"You forget, Connor," Achilles said, "That women in this society do not have roles of leadership. You are blessed that your people understand the value of letting the women lead their clans, and letting the men govern the rules. Both genders have a role in the future of your people, but that does not happen here. The Bible dictates that Adam came first, and Eve was created for the sole purpose of giving him a companion. It was she who created the original sin, and women have been persecuted ever since."

"But that is..."

"Wrong, yes, Connor, there was never any doubt about that. But it's been over a thousand years since the time of Christ, and even longer still for the tale of Adam and Eve. It will take over a thousand years to change anyone's minds. Ellen is a marvel in that she understands her own worth, she knows what she can do and she chooses to pursue it, but unlike your people she has to pay a price to do it: she must be married, and she must live down the societal expectation to submit to her husband when demanded of her. Women who don't submit are often like her."

"But can she not... leave?"

"She could get a divorce," Achilles said, "Or an annulment, but they have their prices as well. No priest will grant her annulment because that right can only be granted if no intimacy passes between the couple, and because she has a child, and that is proof to the contrary, and she is not rich enough to buy a priest off. A divorce has its own stigma, and it would follow her for the rest of her life."

"But that is not right."

Achilles looked across the fire at his pupil. "It never is," he said, "but it cannot be changed. Not in our lifetimes."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that he once again disagreed with the Old Man. He was grateful to Achilles for everything he had done to train Connor, but he was beginning to realize that there were fundamental differences in how they saw the world. Achilles was a fatalist, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could not submit to the idea that nothing could be changed. The very revolution that was starting around them was proof that the people wanted change, that they wanted something better than what they were forced to live with, that they could take their destinies into their own hands. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself had taken control of his destiny, accepted since he was a child that his purpose was to kill the _Atenenyarhu_, the Templars, to keep his people safe; and as he continued on his path he saw that it also kept the Colonists, the Americans, safe – safe to make their decisions and become better than they were. The racism, classism, elitism that so pervaded their culture, it could in fact be transcended, and the equality that existed in his own culture could be achieved in theirs.

* * *

It was two hundred fifty miles from New York to Rockport, a two week journey. Every town either had news or wanted it: Sam Adams had given another rousing speech at the Philadelphia State House supporting independence, there had been a huge Battle on Long Island – Washington and Putnam outnumbered and outgunned, and many of the continental army deserting. There was no way to hold New York, not with their pitiful numbers and the swell of Loyalist support in the city. They would have to retreat. Nobody liked the idea of giving ground, of losing territory. Stephane, the storyteller of their small party, was happy to give a vivacious account of the reading of the Declaration of Independence, people in New Haven and Hartford and Worcester drinking in every word, sharing their own stories of when the declaration passed through their own city or village or homestead.

Everybody was nervous, it was one thing to _declare_ independence, it was another to _achieve_ it, and the loss at Long Island weighed heavily on everyone's conscious. When would New York be abandoned? What would that mean? Could Washington rally?

Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered at the Templars, wondered if Charles Lee, nestled in Washington's bosom as he was, would strike. The man was evil incarnate, the spawn of Flint, and capable of anything. He tried to console himself in saying that Lee was a public figure, restricting his movements as he fought a war. He tried to console himself that Church was imprisoned in Massachusetts. He tried to console himself that his _raké:ni_... but his feelings were complicated on the man and his anxiety would swell again. He had to recover first. That _had_ to come first, or he wouldn't be able to keep Washington safe.

"You cannot tell him," Achilles said one night over the fire. Clipper was out hunting, Duncan helping Stephane with feeding the horses, and Ellen and her daughter asleep. Connor blinked, uncertain how Achilles would know what he was thinking. Was his eagle that strong? Ratonhnhaké:ton pushed the question aside to make his point.

"I have to," he said softly. "Otherwise, he will never be safe."

Achilles shook his head. "He is safer not knowing," he countered. "By planting the seeds of doubt, you threaten to topple his entire endeavor. If Washington is paralyzed, Charles Lee will strike. You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent. Hunt the Templars, as is your duty... But do not drag these men into it. Secrecy is the most vital factor of the third tenet of the Creed: do not compromise the brotherhood. In telling Washington, you will have to explain what the Templars are, and what the Assassins are, and what this war is really about. In telling Washington, you will expose yourself in ways that you cannot yet fathom, and avail yourself of dangers you do not yet understand: political manipulation, deceit and maneuvering. You'll be so caught up in trying to ascertain who is friend and who is foe that you will lose sight of your goals in favor of the immediate need for safety. In telling Washington you will become a public figure, and Charles Lee and your father have been public figures for far longer than you. Nothing good can come of you exposing yourself, nor in exposing Washington."

"No," Connor said, shaking his head. "He must know that he cannot trust Lee, he must know that he is in danger. He is a soldier, not an assemblyman like Sam Adams; he knows how to defend himself. Knowing would be half the battle."

"Child, he scoffed when Tallmadge said that there was a plot against him, Israel Putnam said as much at the hanging and Tallmadge came to us specifically because he had nowhere else to turn. What good would there be in telling a man that? He does not yet understand the gravity of the position he has acquired, the responsibility that has been placed on him – who could? He's only been in charge of the army for barely a year and done little more than lay siege to Boston, march to New York, and lose terribly at Long Island. Already the militia are going back to their homes in the face of defeat, and the British have three generals here after Governor Gage lost Bunker Hill, and Howe and Burgoyne and Clinton have collectively much more experience than he and his tiny role in the French and Indian War. The last thing he needs is another burden on shoulders already ill equipped for the task he has."

"How can you say that?" Connor pressed. "You do not even know him."

"Do you?"

The question grated on Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he decided to try for one more push. "I know that the Continental Congress chose him, and I know that they represent their people. All of the colonies support him in this war, their very hopes will make him win."

"Like the hopes of your people will make you defeat the Templars?" Achilles countered. "Connor, they don't care about the crusade you've placed on yourself. They are living in their valley peacefully, isolated from the conflicts that loom large and heavy here. Oh, they might know vaguely that you are out here, doing God knows what, in the name of protecting them, but they don't _understand_, they _can't_ understand without sacrificing the naiveté that you so value in them. A naiveté, I might add, that _you_ no longer possess. You will never be able to return there, you've changed too much, and they will not accept you as you are now."

The very idea of what Achilles said burned Ratonhnhaké:ton for the rest of the night, unable to answer the point as he was suddenly handed a new worry to gnaw at. Was that true? Would the time come when Oiá:ner, when Kanen'tó:kon would no longer welcome him to the valley? _Roiá:ner_ had already rejected him, was that proof of concept? He woke up longing to turn west, to go back home and ask after everyone, to sleep in the longhouse, to hunt and gather feathers, to create a new dream snare.

Anxiety bubbled in his chest with the thought, he was restless and anxious to get back to the homestead the training and the healing, settling in and preparing for the next _atenenyarhu_ to defeat. He offered to hunt very early, longing for the deep dark of the forest, looking for game and forgetting that there was a wide world just beyond the trees that seemed to be eating his very being. He had another nightmare that night, and set out before dawn to start collecting items for a new snare.

Massachusetts was a deeply settled colony, forests were small and ever shrinking as farms popped up everywhere, and often he would unexpectedly find a homestead in the middle of the woods, sometimes abandoned, sometimes with a family. The game trail he was following that morning led to a larger road, and on it he found a small squad of regulars. One was on a horse, tugging a man behind him on a rope.

A rope around his neck.

Gallows sack falling air need _air breath breath need to breath...!_

He acted without thinking, an animalistic growl low in his throat as he drew his _tamahaac_ holding but a moment before he threw it, spinning end over end and embedding itself in the flank of the horse, causing the animal to rear up and fall. The diversion gave him time to run in, dirk and hidden blade extended as he swept through the savages who would dare perform such brutality, the desperate need for air blocking his mind as he defeated ghosts of the past as well as demons of the present. He was in New York, chasing after Hickey, determined to stop this one terrible deed, and when he was done he was panting over six dead men, and a horse too injured to live. His hands were soaked in blood, and he realized what he had done.

He had killed men.

Not _atenenyarhu_. Men.

He hoped _Iottsitíson_ would forgive him this sin. Suddenly exhausted, he looked down at the man with the rope around his neck. Air still felt glued to his lungs, breathing was hard, but he forced himself to step over the carnage he had wrought and use his dirk to cut the man free. The man was large, larger than Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he ripped the rope off his neck. At last Connor could breathe easier. He looked down at the carnage as a summer shower began to fall, and glanced back up.

"Are you hurt?" he asked carefully.

The big man seemed to shrug his ordeal off. "Nothing that won't mend," he said. "Always thought it was funny when _I_ was doing it. Have a different idea of it now. Thank you, stranger."

"... What were they doing?"

The man sighed, rubbing his neck in the way Ratonhnhaké:ton had so often done in New York. He reached his hand up, unconsciously mimicking the gesture. "This lot was dragging me through the countryside trying to make an example of a deserter," the man said easily, unruffled. He stopped and gave a really look to the young native. "Sorry now, who are you?"

"Connor. A deserter you say?"

The mountain of a man shrugged. "I joined the militia back when I was a young buck, didn't mind serving even with the Sons of Liberty complaining left and right. Don't much agree with the fight, can't stand the idea of fighting people from my home, and I love this country so there you have it. Name's David Walston – my friends call me Big Dave. Might I ask where you live so I could repay the debt when I'm able? Might take us a while, us smithies don't earn much coin these days."

Smith? He was a smith?

Nails. Tools. No more traveling to Boston for metallic needs. Was he any good? Did it matter? The homestead had been needing a smith for over a year, many complained about it, this was a perfect opportunity.

A gift of Sky Goddess, perhaps? To reassure Ratonhnhaké:ton of his choices? He thanked the lady of his vision for this.

"Our community is not far from here," Connor said, "and we certainly could use the services of a smith. Would you consider plying your trade there?"

For a moment the man, Big Dave, balked, but when he realized Connor was perfectly serious in his question a much different look washed over his face, and he smiled. "Well, would make repaying you a spot easier. I just might!"

It was an hour to walk back to the camp, and Achilles took one look at Big Dave and sighed. "I thought you were hunting _animals_ not more _homesteaders_," he moaned.

* * *

The rest of the day was Achilles interviewing the big man, and Ellen keeping a firm grip on her daughter and keeping to the back of the wagon, unable to even look at the big hulk of a man. A glance showed that she was afraid, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was sad that this woman had been scarred so deeply.

They passed throughout Cambridge and then north to Salem, and then Rockport. As they descended from the hills, Stephane and Duncan rode ahead, heading back to the manor to start airing it out and get cooking. Clipper stayed behind as errand boy, not that Connor thought it was necessary. He didn't see any need now that they were back in the homestead. But Clipper rode beside the wagon, long rifle across the saddle, smiling.

The woods kept thinning until they came to the main street of Rockport. Connor drove the wagon to the Miles's inn, hoping to set up both Big Dave and Ellen and then return to the manor. He was putting on the break for the wagon when Lyle came out.

"Oh, hello Connor!" the doctor smiled, walking over, his bag in hand. "And Master Achilles! Welcome back."

Connor couldn't stop a smile from catching the corners of his mouth. Lyle, being the abolitionist, always made a point of giving Achilles the respect he deserved, and had likely been deprived of for a long time. And Lyle particularly made it a point when there were newcomers around, just to make it clear that the bent old nigger that most saw was someone of great esteem and respect. Lyle once explained that he did it to prevent people from making thoughtless comments. Connor wasn't sure if it worked or not, but seeing that a white man _could_ offer respect to a black man was always a relief to see.

"Hello, Doctor," Connor replied quietly. While his voice had returned, he still didn't have the strength to speak up, especially if he'd been quiet for a while.

Lyle paused, his eyes narrowed, and then he gasped. "Connor! What the devil happened?" Lyle rushed forward, quickly climbing the wagon wheel and leaning in to look at Connor's neck. "By God you've lost weight, and your neck!"

Connor frowned, thinking that the bruising had been fading nicely over the past two months.

Clipper's smile was gone. "Some silly folks got it stuck in their heads that Connor here needed a hangin'."

Lyle took a deep breath, ready to explode, before he let it out slowly. "You're coming with me," he said firmly. "I'd like to look over you." But Connor already saw Lyle glancing from the corner of his eyes to Big Dave and Ellen. "It seems you weren't the only one people thought needed to stretch their neck." Lyle turned to the Old Man. "Master Achilles, would you mind if I take Connor with me?" _And the newcomers,_ was left unsaid, since Lyle always gave a checkup to new homesteaders.

"Go on," the Old Man said, easing his way off the wagon. "I'll take care of the arrangements."

Lyle was already looking over Dave. "More recent than you, Connor, but not as damaged as what you were, am I right?"

Connor nodded. "He was being pulled by neck by man on horseback. We picked him up a few days ago."

Dave was tense with Lyle by his neck, but held himself perfectly still. "Didn't say you had a sawbones," the large smith said lightly, though his whole body was tense.

"Sawbones are at sea," Lyle replied lightly. Though he was looking to Dave's neck, Connor watched as Lyle discreetly eyed Ellen's fading bruises and the welt Maria had. "Those at sea have fewer options. I'm a doctor with poultices and pastes for bruises and black-and-blues and splints and slings for busted bones. I can do a lot more than a mere sawbones."

Ellen was eyeing them critically. "Poultices for bruises?" she asked, an unbruised eyebrow arching. "My little girl... stumbled before we came here and has a nasty welt. Is that poultice of yours any good?"

"The best," Connor replied softly. "Doctor White is sought after as one of the few doctors in the area without traveling to Boston. The Algonquian will come to seek the good Doctor for good white man medicine."

Lyle turned to the young Virginian. "Clipper, would you be so kind as to go and collect Prudence? And Diana and Catherine if you can."

Clipper blinked. "The Freeman's have their hands full with little Hunter toddling around."

"But I'll need her help with the poultices," Lyle replied. "Tell her to bring some linseed and mustard."

"Alright, doc, if you say so."

Lyle turned to Connor. "I'll get my buggy and we can all drive up to my home."

"Of course."

At Lyle's house, he bustled them in, setting out honey and insisting that Connor have some to coat his throat while he pulled Dave to the room devoted as clinic to examine. Ellen was still tense, having seen nothing but men and holding Maria tight. Not that the twelve-year-old cared for the leash. She was looking everywhere. Maria tried to pick up anything and everything, fascinated on what it could possibly be used for in medicine. Connor smiled at the curiosity, glad that whatever abuses her father inflicted, it hadn't damaged her spirit as it had her mother.

Prudence arrived first, little Hunter in tow. The boy was a year and a half now, and eager to crawl around and get into things as Maria was doing, only to put things in his mouth instead of examining them. Prudence gave a tired smile and held Hunter tightly to her chest, ignoring how he pulled at her head scarf or the neck of her dress.

"Connor! Welcome home!" Prudence smiled warmly. "When Achilles raced out of here, we were all worried. It is good to see you back and whole."

Connor stood and walked over. "It is good to see you as well," he said softly. "I see Hunter has grown even further."

Prudence beamed at him. "Would you like to hold him?"

Connor hesitated, still not comfortable with such young children. Prudence smiled brightly, and offered her armful of toddler, and Connor couldn't do anything but take the small dark baby.

"He is already as strong as his namesake," Prudence said proudly. "Warren and I continue to thank God every day for this blessing."

Connor turned. "Prudence, this is Ellen and her daughter Maria. She is a seamstress and is moving to our small village."

Prudence's eyes lit up. "Do you work with wool? Our sheep have been giving us a good yield every year, but the weaver in Boston always cheats us, we are certain. We can provide several dozen pounds if you could use some now."

Ellen was wide-eyed, trying to hide her bruised face, and clutching Maria tightly, but her eyes suddenly flashed shrewdly. "That depends on the caliber of the wool. I don't have a loom and I don't make the fabric, but I know someone in New York who takes wool for spinning."

The two immediately started to talk shop and Connor didn't follow any of it beyond the fact that fabrics were far more complicated than he'd thought. But Connor was glad for Prudence and commended Lyle's quick thinking in calling for her. With just a glance of the room, Prudence had seen Ellen and probably understood immediately Ellen's position as a battered wife, given Connor's talent for rescuing people. So Prudence, always so timid and shy, was the best person to start talking with Ellen, being safe from any sort of conflict or confrontation. It would likely be the same when Catherine and Diana arrived, and the women would probably be there for Lyle's examination to ensure dignity for all involved.

Connor hissed loudly on reflex when Hunter started poking at his neck, and held the baby further away.

"Connor?" Prudence asked softly. "Are you alright?"

Breathe. _Breathe_. He focused simply on breathing as Prudence hurried over and gently took Hunter from him. "I am... well, Prudence," he said softly, reaching up but not quite touching his neck.

The gesture drew Prudence's eyes and for the first time, Connor saw true anger in the soft-spoken farmer. "Connor? Who did this to you?" she asked quietly.

Connor only shook his head. "It was a... misunderstanding."

The anger flashed across Prudence's eyes again, but she did not press. "I suppose I should give the linseed and mustard to Lyle now," she said softly. Turning, she smiled gently to Ellen. "Would you like to hold Hunter for a while?"

Ellen gave her own gentle smile. "It reminds me of when Maria was that small," she said. "Things were... good back then."

Maria huffed. "I was _never_ that small."

The ladies laughed.

Catherine and Diana arrived shortly after, both eager to introduce themselves to Ellen and Maria, and shortly after their arrival, Lyle stepped out with Big Dave and Prudence. His neck was wrapped in a soft bandage loosely, and Connor could see that Dave was not entirely comfortable with it, but he still smiled.

"I know it will be difficult," Lyle said, "but you'll need to keep that bandage for a week. It _will_ reduce the swelling and bruising. I'll stop by every morning to change the bandages."

"Whatever you say doc," Dave replied. "Whaddya say I make you a good little shovel for that herb garden out back?"

"Once you have your smithy set up, that sounds great," Lyle replied. "Connor, I noticed you're also stiff. Let's look at you next."

The checkup was grueling, Connor having to explain everything that had happened in New York as Lyle checked every single injury he listed. He deliberately kept much out, only saying that he had been mistaken for someone named Hickey and had ended up serving out the sentence instead.

"And the _hanging_?"

Connor looked away. "The Old Man was able to... stop it."

"Not _prevent_ it?" Lyle grumbled under his breath. "No, because heaven forbid anyone trust a Negro to tell the truth. Damn prejudices. It's like seeing someone with dark skin automatically makes them criminals and untrustworthy. There's no _logic_ behind it! Such generalizations instead of taking man one at a time, it's ridiculous!"

Connor smiled.

"The doctor that treated you in New York was decent," Lyle sat back, adjusting his glasses. "You say he was more inclined to disease?"

"Yes," Connor replied. "He said he specialized in infections and disease."

"Given that you're still with us after such a horrible experience is proof of his skill," Lyle replied. "Still, there are a few things I'd like to add. He was right to have you on a diet of red meat to restore some of your strength, and knowing you, you've started exercising to get back to strength."

Connor nodded.

"You won't like this, but you need to avoid building strength in that arm till the end of the year."

"...What?"

Lyle took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The bone is still mending, and liable to break again if you put too much strain on it. When I see someone who's broken something, I keep them off it for six months. You've only been healing for three. And given that you've been using it in the meantime and building strength, I'd say to not use it for another month further." Lyle ran his hands gently along the arm, feeling the bone. "So wait till Hunter's birthday. You're far enough along that you can do simple things around the home, holding a book, eating, things like that. But anything more and I'll have to insist you leave it to Clipper or Stephane or Duncan."

Connor frowned heavily. But he saw the wisdom, no matter how he disliked it, in Lyle's words.

"Very well."

Lyle nodded, going over to a basin to wash his hands. "Now, what can you tell me about Ellen and her daughter before I see them?"

* * *

Ellen started sewing and business almost as soon as she was settled into the _Miles End_, and Big Dave visited everyone who needed smithing and borrowed fires and tools to do what he could since he didn't have a proper smithy yet. He worked closely with Lance, who often needed nails or metal decorations, and did what he could in the crowded woodshop while everyone in town started to work together to set up the foundations for both Ellen and Dave's homes before the winter freeze hardened the grounds. For the ease of everyone digging out the cellars, Ellen and Dave had their homes built across the street from each other, and Ellen just took the news stiffly. No surprise given how her husband had been a big man as well.

Ollie and Corrine were both delighted to have a smith and seamstress staying at their inn, offering free food in exchange for linens and knives, and repairs. Prudence seemed to have taken a great liking to Ellen and was often seen riding in with Hunter held close so the two could sit and talk. Soon, Prudence was wearing a new headscarf and Connor had a sneaking suspicion on just who it had come from. Diana and Catherine both became laundresses for the growing homestead. With help at the farm, Lance and his apprentices, Norris and his team, to say nothing of Faulkner and his sailors, they were very busy, and Catherine had no trouble stopping by Ellen to ask her advice on certain fabrics and how to wash. "I doubt poundin' with a rock would work well on somma that silk I see y'have."

It was incremental, but Ellen slowly started to relax and smile more sincerely. She was still hesitant and cautious around men, particularly those she didn't know, but some like Warren and Lyle she was able to speak to without worry.

Connor could not help but feel... satisfied with how the village had grown. Everyone was supporting each other, helping out, and working towards the good of all, much as his village and his people did. It may have been in the culture of the white man, but what was going on felt more of his people than of what he'd seen of the white man's culture, and Connor often just walked along the village to stop and chat and reconnect. And to remind himself that not everyone spit out vitriol and hatred as he had experienced for months in Bridwell.

It was late September when he rode down to the mine to visit with Norris. But Connor was surprised to see that Norris wasn't actually there.

"Where is he?" he asked.

The man he was speaking to, a big black man of nothing but muscles, chuckled. "_Avec sa fille_," he said. "He is visiting his girl, most likely."

Connor blinked, not understanding the chuckle or the wide grin. "Thank you, for your time."

The man shrugged. "_Pas de probleme._"

It was nice to see that Norris and Myriam were getting along better. Norris was so sweet on Myriam and Myriam always seemed so confused on what to do with it. When he'd left, they were talking and visiting, and it was good to know it had continued. Perhaps he could visit as well.

It was a long ride from Norris's mine up to Myriam's camp, and evening was approaching. Connor was thinking how perhaps he might go hunting with Myriam. To be alone in the woods and perhaps reconnect with Iottsitíson. After the chaos and pain of the last few months, he felt the need to be alone in order to just feel and deal with it. He still couldn't stand anything near his neck, though he could button up closer than when he had first started recovering. He still bore nightmares of that dark time in prison and it just added to the anxiety that he always held with him. He needed to get back to practicing stillness.

Up ahead, he heard Myriam grunt and he wondered what animal was giving her such trouble with skinning. A bear perhaps? With its coarse fur and layers of fat? He'd offer help once he arrived. Nearing the campsite, he dismounted and tied the reins of his black mare that Tallmadge had kept all the time he'd been in prison to a bush near a small creek and started walking up.

What he saw... was not what he was expecting.

Norris was there, as he had expected but they were... not as Connor had predicted.

Both were pantless. Norris was sitting on a log and Myriam was on his lap, her back to him, both rocking in a distinct rhythm. Norris's hands held Myriam's waist firmly, as she hissed orders, "_faster and harder!_" which Norris obliged. Apparently not enough, however, as Myriam reached between their legs and if Norris's yelp was any indication, she had grabbed something delicate to inspire the faster and the harder. Myriam was looking completely satisfied while Norris looked to Myriam in wonder. They both screamed out together and Myriam turned to Norris with a warm smile.

"Now," she said huskily between heavy pants, "you may touch my breasts."

"_Merci, ma chere_," Norris replied, happily complying.

Connor turned and left on silent feet.

Apparently, Myriam and Norris were getting along just _fine_.

* * *

September continued to cool and the Freemans were frantic with their help on the farm as harvest season continued to approach. The foundations for Ellen and Dave had been dug out and now the stones needed to be set before the frost came. Then building the house itself could continue through the winter. Ellen had thrown herself into the design of her home, much as Warren and Prudence had when they had been building their farm. Terry and Godfrey and their men were focusing on seasoned woods and when and where to sell them in the change of seasons before heading back into the woods for another crop. Faulkner returned and hugged Connor close, proclaiming how glad he was that he was still alive. Many of the other crew insisted on dragging Connor down to the docks for a raucous night of drinking. While Connor refused to drink alcohol, he did enjoy the night and was surprised at how much the crew cared for the "captain" that their "cap'n" held in such regard. They had even scrounged together a "captain" uniform for him, for whenever he joined them at sea.

It was all very healing after the ordeal of his summer, but the end of September brought horrible news.

Aside from the fact that New York was in Loyalist British hands, there had been a great fire, burning a quarter of the city down to cinders and stone. Most of the west side of the city simply didn't exist. Reports of how and who started it were numerous, but the dry weather, strong winds, and buildings deserted after the Battle of Long Island as Americans fled led to a devastating firestorm that had scarred New York badly. Anything from Broadway to the Hudson River was gone, Trinity Church no longer existed, and Belleview hospital was overrun with burn victims. In the midst of the chaos, many chose to use the opportunity to rob empty houses of valuables, plundering whatever they could.

The British were already hauling in Americans for questioning about arson, though nothing came of it. But the most astonishing news was that the British didn't seem to be doing anything to repair the damage and rebuild. Instead, the husk of the west side was left to rot. British officers took patriot homes as their own, any church that was not a Church of England became a prison, hospital, or barracks, all acts of worship cancelled, Loyalists who were flooding into the city to escape the American scourge were setting up tents in the wreckage, and the city was put under martial law, once again reminding Americans of the high-handedness of the British.

Achilles took the news hard, often staring into the fire in quiet contemplation, and Connor could not help but remember that he had recuperated in an Assassin home on the west side. One with a covered portrait that Achilles often stared at.

But the news of the fire also brought up unpleasant memories for Connor of his own home burning and his _Ista_'s death. So with the leaves turning, Connor quietly packed his black mare and rode back across Massachusetts, across the Quinnehtukqut, the Connecticut River, and deep into the mountains to once more visit his people.

Kanen'tó:kon smiled upon seeing him. "It is good to see you, brother!" he greeted as Ratonhnhaké:ton rode in.

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled as well. "I trust the incursions have ended?"

His best friend frowned. "For now."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised at how dower Kanen'tó:kon was. "You seem troubled."

Kanen'tó:kon shook his head and returned to the smile. "We can speak of that later. For now, you have returned and that is enough. Come, it's been a while."

The rest of the week was spent celebrating his return, though the chiefs were more subdued and guarded about it. The death of William Johnson was still difficult to accept and their view of Ratonhnhaké:ton had been forever tarnished as a result. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not blame them, not after his time in jail. Not after realizing that Johnson, like Hickey, was simply a man and not an _atenenyarhu_. Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he might ever make it up to the chiefs for what he had done, but the Sky Goddess's will came first.

Oiá:ner wasn't so hesitant. "It is good to see you, though I wish it was more often."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled and hugged her. "I trust all is well?"

"Things have been peaceful since Johnson's passing," she replied, bending her old wrinkled body to sit by the fire. It seemed no one referred to Johnson by his Kaniekéha:ka name anymore. While Ratonhnhaké:ton no longer believed that Johnson was a Stone Coat, what he had tried to do remained wrong. To not have a native name was... fitting. It was a cutting of ties with someone who had fought for them yet betrayed them in the end.

But Oiá:ner hesitated.

"What is it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Oiá:ner touched the decorations of her walking staff, fingering the beads and feathers. "Some are concerned," she said softly. "Johnson promised safety and security, even as he tried to buy our land out from us. With him gone, we are alone once more without a representative to the white man. And now, the other villages speak of aligning with the Loyalists."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. That would not end well. "That is their choice," he said softly, bowing his head. "Our people walk a different path." They had Iottsitíson and her artifacts to protect.

"Yes," Oiá:ner nodded, staring into the fire. "For a very long time, we have stood apart from the Haudenosaunee. Apart from the Kanien'kehá:ka. Apart from all others, in fact. I will not abandon our duty, but some days I cannot help but question it. As the white man's war once more threatens our survival, I cannot help but wonder if we will need to pick sides."

"There is a reason we stand alone," Connor replied, looking to the glass sphere that was so important in their rituals. "It is natural to wonder... To worry. But we must stand strong. We must have faith. Iottsitíson will look after us as she always has."

Oiá:ner gave a light chuckle. "Truly, the world is turned around when it is I who question and you who comfort."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled. "It is only from your teachings that I can have such belief."

"Perhaps," Oiá:ner said. "But I think you are in need of more lessons of stillness."

"I will always follow your guidance."

Ratonhnhaké:ton also spent time reconnecting with the friends he'd had as a child, but he found it strange to relate with them. They lacked the same knowledge of the world that he now had and it was... difficult to speak to them about certain things without offering different perspectives from what he'd learned under the Old Man, or Sam Adams, or anyone else. It was strangely off-putting.

He was in deep discussion of the white man and how they viewed things, when Kanen'tó:kon frowned heavily. "What if they return?" he asked, his face having long lost the roundness and instead looking powerful. "What if there are more like Johnson? We should have listened to you when you said to push them back. Then, we might be better prepared to deal with these threats."

Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. "Fear nothing," he said softly, "for I will watch over our people."

"But will it be enough?" Kanen'tó:kon replied, frowning. "You are but one man against thousands and thousands of settlers. The people of Boston alone could crush us, to say nothing of the _other_ settlements. Where do we draw the line? Or where do _you_ draw the line?"

"I draw the line at letting people come to steal our land," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I draw the line at people who come to see us dead. For all that the white man claims the red man scalps, it is the _white man_ who scalps more than any tribe. And our tribe never scalped in the first place."

"And yet they creep ever closer!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "I have come to know more of the white man's ways. Those who come and settle to farm mean only to use the land. The problem is a lack of understanding between our cultures. The white man will intrude on something because he seeks monetary gain, or because he is ignorant. Those who seek monetary gain are dangerous and must be stopped, but those who are ignorant might be taught."

Kanen'tó:kon scoffed. "To teach is to take time. Far too much time."

"I have no easy answers," he replied. "The more I learn of the white man, the more confused I sometimes feel. Their culture is... harsher and crueler for some and not others. To know one aspect of their culture is not the same as knowing all. If we were to travel west and meet the Potawatomi, meeting one clan would help us know the whole tribe. But the white man is not merely one tribe. Even to separate British from French, there is a difference of rich and poor, nobles and commoners and merchantmen, there is no unity in the culture other than it is a mix of culture."

"All the more difficult," Kanen'tó:kon frowned again. "And you would have us teach them to prevent them from offending us?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. "I do not know what I would have you do. But I will prevent those of greed from coming. I have stopped Johnson and others who worked with him. Once I hunt the rest down, we will be free of the evil twin Flint."

"How many remain?"

"Three."

"How hard can it be to hunt them down?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not want to get into the politics that prevented him from confronting Lee directly or the complicated knot of his feelings for his father. Instead he simply said, "They hide within thirteen colonies. Hunting them is taking longer than I thought."

His best friend nodded. "I shall leave it to you."

A few days later, Oiá:ner pulled Ratonhnhaké:ton aside for another lesson in stillness.

It was not easy.

Once he was still, he couldn't help but remember. _AirairairairAIR_. He could not help but remember the long days in prison and the cold and the slurs and the abuse. Of being caught and sentenced to die when he was innocent. Of killing Hickey despite how beaten and bloodied he was.

Stillness was difficult.

Oiá:ner, the wise woman that she was, seemed understanding. She continued the stillness until at last, Ratonhnhaké:ton could take no more and started shaking, grasping at his collar and pulling it away. The nightmares had not stopped and his dream snare barely eased his knowledge that they would eventually come. It had been _months_ now. Why did he still dream of that horrible experience? Why? He was past it, he had healed, his arm was already better and stronger. So _why_?

Oiá:ner sat beside him and held him as he gasped for breath and shuddered, the anxiety bubbling up and out and beyond his control. He locked his jaw to hold it back, but still it broke through. The old clan mother stayed by his side, soothing and silent, as everything rolled out of him and finally washed away.

"Speak," she said softly.

And so he did. He grindingly and haltingly explained what had happened in New York, from hunting down Hickey, one who had worked with Johnson to steal their land from their people, to being caught and spending time in jail, to getting to know Hickey and oddly liking him in a strange way, to the hanging and his recovery. He did not stop until the moon was high in the sky.

Oiá:ner said nothing, though her lips were pursed. She brought him back to the longhouse and set him to bed before sitting at his head, wearing a mask of the False Face Society and chanting quietly.

That night, he did not dream.

The following day Oiá:ner brought him out once more to study stillness, but this time she focused on breathing, feeling each breath, every caress of wind and whenever he started to panic, remembering when he couldn't, she donned her mask once more and chanted.

Three days of this, and finally Oiá:ner gave him a necklace of three talons. "This," she said softly, "will protect your breath. An eagle talon for the strength of the air you breathe, and two owl talons to grant you the wisdom of the air you breathe."

Ratonhnhaké:ton put on the necklace and didn't even flinch at how close it was to his neck.

"_Niá:wen,_ Oiá:ner."

"_Io_, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You are always welcome."

Connor returned to the homestead feeling greatly refreshed, having finally put the hanging behind him. He constantly reached up to his neck, marveling that he no longer twitched or flinched at anything so close to it after all he had endured for the past few months. Riding in, everyone greeted him as they always did, happy to see him back. Lyle stared at the necklace around Connor's neck and gave a large warm smile, as did Prudence and Big Dave. Achilles also seemed pleased, though he was grouchier in his stating such.

Thanksgiving came and Ollie and Corrine hosted a large dinner at the tavern for many of the residents, giving places of honor to Connor and Achilles as the instruments of so much happiness. This had made for two full months of peace that Connor had desperately needed, and Lyle was easing up on some of his restrictions and letting Connor do some smaller exercises to build up more strength in the arm he had broken.

But just after Thanksgiving, word came from Charles Dorian, an Assassin in France, that a Hessian Templar by the name of Johann Rall had come to America and was seeking to join with Haytham and help. Rall was to meet Charles Lee in battle in order to pass off information and eventually defect so that he could join Lee and Haytham and start restoring order after all the work Connor had done to loosen their grip on the colonies.

"So, scab," Achilles said, leaning back from his desk after translating the letter. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Kill Rall."

Achilles raised a brow. "Can you?" he asked softly. "After nearly being hung, it would be understandable if you have difficulty lifting the blade again."

Connor gave a soft smile. "If one sees brutality but does nothing, how can one be a person?" He understood why Achilles was concerned. There were men of his village, who while hunting had faced a bear or cougar, who weren't quite the same after they had healed. Who could not go out and hunt as they had. But Connor knew he was not like that. But the only proof he could provide was to simply go into battle once more and persevere. "I will start packing."

"Have you decided who will go with you?"

Connor paused at the door. "Do I need someone with me?"

Achilles looked at him, and Connor saw the age as he hadn't when he'd first met the Old Man. Connor himself may be healed from his ordeal in prison and in a noose, but perhaps Achilles had not. If it hadn't been for Tallmadge, none would have known that Connor had been arrested and to be hung. And Connor would have died, mission failed. So he simply nodded. "Clipper. Duncan is in Philadelphia learning where things stand and Stephane is currently doing a supply run. Besides, Clipper is Virginian. He might provide me a way to contact Washington."

Achilles nodded, but scowled. "Let that general know of us and he'll be in _greater_ danger. He can't know that he's a pawn in such a large conflict as Assassins and Templars."

"He must know that he is still in danger."

"But he still needs to trust Lee to fight."

It was the circular argument again. Connor dropped it and instead headed off to find Clipper and start preparing.

Faulkner was in port, a rarity, when Clipper and Connor rode down to book passage, and the old seaman was eager to give them a lift. Having been up and down the coast, he had a decent idea of where the British and American forces were. He carefully sailed as far as he could up the Delaware River, dropping them off at Philadelphia.

"Won't go no nearer," Faulkner said. "Word is the armies are staring each other down up near Trenton, and any closer someone will start expecting me to be on one side or the other. This way I'm a simple merchant vessel and I can sail off and sink British ships."

"That is fine," Connor replied. "We will ride."

The weather was bitterly cold and everything from the ground to the windows were often coated in frost. The Delaware River had large chunks of ice that floated down only to freeze solid overnight and to break up in the bare warmth of the day. The snow was many inches thick, making the trails and roads icy as it was packed down by horses and wagons.

The people that Connor and Clipper spoke with were demoralized. Washington, despite his victory at Boston and sending the British retreating from the city, had yet to win another conflict. He had lost Long Island, lost New York, and been on the run since. Many were starting to wonder if they should just surrender to the British.

Except any who had faced the Hessians.

Hessians were German auxiliary units that the British had hired and had arrived in August, just in time to help win the Battle of Long Island. Where British regulars were common folk who enlisted and only had basic training on strategies that worked, the Hessians were pulled from the country, trained rigorously, and faced severe penalties for desertion, such as beatings or executions. There was, among the people they spoke with, a great fear of the Hessians and their brutality, hired German thugs to fight for the British to plunder and terrorize the Americans. This was complicated because many of Pennsylvania were of German descent or recent immigrants, who did not wish to fight their brothers, but still wanted freedom from the British.

More stories filtered around as Connor and Clipper rode north along the Delaware to find Trenton, where Faulkner had said that Washington likely was. Stories of the various battles that Washington had fought, always facing the British and facing his men deserting. The fact that Washington had even won Boston seemed a miracle, a one in a million chance that would never happen again.

It was finally the nineteenth of December when Connor and Clipper rode through a snowy flurry to Washington's camp at the home of William Kieth, near McKoney's Ferry. The men were all assembled, and listening to a reading of some kind that seemed to at least be boosting moral. Which, to Connor's eye, they were in need of. The men looked... Connor hated to use the word wretched, but it was what came to mind. The men weren't dressed for the cold weather, many having only rags to cover their feet. Few had blankets. There were no uniforms and no way to tell who was in command of each unit. When Connor had been at Bunker and Breed's Hills, people were already in formation and lined up, officers behind them talking encouragement and orders. But here... it was so... different. There were signs of organization. Units seemed to camp together, muskets were stacked together, without bayonets, but looking at the lines of men listening to what sounded like a piece from Thomas Paine, Connor had no way of knowing who was who in the threadbare clothes.

"Well this is a mite different than the redcoats," Clipper observed.

"Indeed."

Some discreet questions found Washington that evening by the farm, and Connor and Clipper hesitated. They needed to know where Johann Rall was, and neither of them spoke German. The best way to find out was through Washington, who would know where his enemy lay. But how to present it? As firmly as Connor believed that Washington needed to know the truth of the Assassins and the Templars, he also understood that it was a fantastic story not easily believed. Clipper looked around, and finally sighed.

"Think I might be better used lookin' 'round. See if I can find some good snipin' points."

Connor nodded. They were a few miles north of Trenton, where the Hessians were, and Clipper knowing the land would be the best usage of his sharp eyes.

Finally, late into the night, Connor was ushered in to see Washington.

"Commander," he said softly, bowing his head in respect.

Washington looked up from his map of the area, a compass and ruler atop for measuring distances. "Hello, young man. I understand you have word for me?" Washington was a big man, very tall, taller than even Connor, and he looked very tired. "You are not one of my spies."

"No, but I have worked with Benjamin Tallmadge."

Something flickered in Washington's eyes, and then the man's jaw dropped. "Oh... you're that poor young man..."

"Who replaced Hickey in the noose," Connor replied, not even flinching. Oiá:ner had healed him, after all.

Washington snapped his heels together and gave a small bow. "I owe you much. Tallmadge spoke of how you were trying to save me when you were captured, and that you still killed my would-be-murderer."

"I did what I had to," Connor replied. "You are important, chosen by the people, to push for freedom. You cannot be allowed to die."

Washington gave a brief, wan smile. "A stout defender. I don't know what unit you are in."

Connor did not reply a moment. "I am not in the army. I am best utilized elsewhere. But I will continue to support you. In any way I can."

"You have my thanks," Washington sat down wearily by the fire, offering Connor a seat. "Tallmadge mentioned your name, but I fear I have forgotten. The past few months have been... strained."

"In that we agree," Connor replied. "I am Ratonhnhaké:ton, but your people call me Connor. Connor Davenport. I am of the tribe that you call Mohawk."

Washington raised a brow. "Are the Iroquois supporting us?"

Connor shook his head. "I do not and cannot represent my people. I have not lived with them for several years. I am here merely to aid you again."

Washington sat back, hands folded, looking over Connor. "From how you speak, I surmise that your aide will be on your terms, and not mine?"

"My aide is continuous," Connor replied, "even if I am not with your army. In this moment in time, I am here for one man. Johann Rall, who commands a unit of Hessians. He is part of a larger group that opposes you; it is they I fight."

"This is very... secretive."

Connor pulled out a letter, one that Achilles had translated. "I was contacted by a man in France. He had uncovered that Rall was sent to finish what Hickey had started. He means to kill you and end this war before it can truly succeed."

Washington took the letter, and tilted it towards the fire. "My French is nonfunctional," he said softly, squinting at the words. "Yet I do understand the gist of this. Very well. What would you have me do?"

Connor shook his head. "I am not a strategist or a leader of armies," he said, putting up his hands. "I am after but one man. I will stay with your army until I can remove him, and then move on."

"An ally regardless," Washington smiled, handing back the letter and leaning back. "I understand that Rall is just across the river in Trenton, though where in the Hessian camp, I am uncertain."

"That is enough," Connor replied, standing. "I thank you for your time."

"I thank you for your mysterious aid," Washington replied, shaking Connor's hand. "I need all the help I can get."

Washington's chief of staff led Connor to a small space to sleep. Connor slept, exhausted, and grateful for a brief chance to rest.

The next morning Connor stuck to Washington's side. He was uncertain where Charles Lee was and when Lee would eventually strike, so it was better to stay by the Commander's side. Just in case. He stayed a silent shadow, though Washington was clearly unused to having him there and would often look questioningly at him. But Connor just continued to be silent and watchful.

"Connor? Do you need anything?" Washington finally asked when he'd ridden out to look at the river.

"No," Connor replied. "Rall and the men he has aligned with are known for cunning treachery and stealthily removing enemies. I merely keep watch."

"You are certainly dedicated."

"Someone must be."

"You think my bodyguards aren't enough?"

"No," Connor replied, looking down the road at approaching riders that none else saw or heard. "I merely think that I see things differently. Word is coming."

"Word?" Washington turned and squinted, only just barely seeing the dark form of a rider against the blinding glare of the snow. "Well, let's see what this is all about."

Connor stayed further back, remaining in the shadow, and listened as word of Lee's men arriving reached the Commander, along with the disheartening news that Charles Lee had been captured by the British when he'd been staying over, far from camp, for an assignation. Enlistments were up for many units, people just heading home, and more enlistments would be up by the end of the year. But with the arrival of Lee's men under General Sullivan, and later General Gates, a large number of militia volunteers showed up, those terrified of the Hessians and eager to kick them out of Pennsylvania and New Jersey. So even as men left, Washington's army swelled.

But the morale was still low. Lee was a popular general, after defending Charlestown, South Carolina, to say nothing of his bravado and bluster and harsh criticism of Washington. Something would be needed to keep the army together. But Washington simply smiled at finally having enough men on hand for any kind of engagement. He was looking through his spyglass to Trenton, and was planning something, though he remained reticent. Connor followed the Commander up the hills and watched him observing the New Jersey town before riding back down to his Pennsylvania camp.

Spending time in the camp also started to make Connor smile. For all that the men were poorly clothed or equipped for the cold weather, he saw that nearly twenty percent of the army was black. Free men of darker skin side by side with white men, organized by their colony. An integrated army of men who wished for freedom. Even if the men did not have good morale, Connor could feel his own morale boosting.

Clipper flitted about the camp, talking with Virginian men or mountain men from other colonies, but he was often out in the snowy hills, looking and studying Trenton and the land around it.

Washington ordered diversions, seeking to draw some of the Hessians further south down the Delaware, and on December twenty-second to the twenty-third, the Battle of Iron-Works Hill did as Washington wished, even if it did not go as planned.

So on December the twenty-third, Washington brought his staff together, Connor leaning in shadowed corner, and explained his plan.

It was bold. Crossing the Delaware on the night of Christmas, hoping that the Hessians would be fat and full from celebrating the holiday, and disorganized for an attack in the dark of dawn. There were many arguments, picking apart the plan, trying to see what would and wouldn't work, but Washington listened to it all quietly and respectfully, before offering gentle counters and adjustments. He reminded Connor of Achilles, in a way, quietly solid in the face of aggression.

The rest of the twenty-third was a flurry of activity in the cold, collecting boats, sending men out for more diversions, and the activity continued through Christmas Eve Day. Officers kept tight with their units, drilling them in the bitter cold and keeping an eye to avoid any desertions given how critical this attack would be.

A unit of Massachusetts men under John Glover, along with anyone else with sea experience, was gathered and given the boats for the long crossing. As Christmas dawned, everyone was given three days of rations and given fresh flints for their muskets. The plan was to cross just after dark, but by the time food and flints were handed out, men didn't start arriving to McKonkey's Ferry until well after dark at six in the evening. What had started as a cold rain shifted to freezing rain, coating the boats and oars in ice as they crossed, before finally falling as just snow. The first across were the canons and Connor and Washington both were amazed at how the canons never even tipped or twisted the boats, standing tall.

"These boats have a shallow draft. They haul iron on a regular basis."

Horses and artillery over, the men started the cold, freezing ride across the river. Small ice pellets of snow pounded any exposed skin, and even skin under thin, threadbare shirts. The wind cut through clothes and many were shivering before even getting out to the unimpeded wind of the river. Even being on the dark river provided no relief as chunks of ice would hit and rock the boats. But the oarsmen of Glover never wavered, crossing to the lantern across on the New Jersey shore.

Washington was on one of the first boats across, as was Connor, the steady rhythm of the drummer boys keeping the oarsmen to time and steadily crossing the black night of darkness and snow. The password, "Victory or Death" was given to the lanterns, and soon they were settling into the snow on the shore. Many just collapsed to sleep while they could, freshly arrived and passed out blankets blocking out the wind and snow marginally.

Washington stood stiffly, constantly checking his pocket-watch under the lanterns and frowning at the lateness. He'd wanted to set out after sunset and be marching to Trenton by midnight, to catch them completely asleep. But they had arrived late, the crossing was taking longer than expected, and they likely wouldn't be to Trenton till dawn, if they pushed it. Everyone was finally over by three in the morning and they _finally_ started marching at four.

Washington made his orders clear. Absolute silence. No talking, whispering, or noise of any kind, and as much speed as possible to cover the nine miles down to Trenton. The force split partway there, Sullivan taking the River Road, and Washington staying with Greene's division and taking Pennington Road.

It was a long and grueling four hour march, in freezing cold, with rags wrapped around feet, and a biting wind. Connor was sad to note many bloody footprints in the snow as he followed Washington. But unlike the hills of the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware, the roads were level and easy to traverse, making up much time.

Dawn was gray and cold, but more light seemed to give the exhausted men more energy as they realized that the Hessians were ahead and completely unprepared. A shout in a language Connor had never heard rose up, "_Der Feind! Der Feind!_" and Hessians spilled out to the small collection of a half dozen streets that made up Trenton. The Americans let out a great yell as they swept forward, and the Hessians were clearly scrambling to get weapons, _anything_ to repel the attack. Despite the beaten and battered and bloodied nature of the American forces, they were _winning_ against the fearsome German soldiers.

Washington stayed with Knox and the artillery at the northern edge of town, firing into any squad or regiment that even started to show organization, and so Connor stayed with Washington, his eagle eyes alert. Clipper was by his side, his rifle loaded and ready while Connor searched.

As Washington stood stiffly, his own anxiety and tension leaking off of him in waves over this desperate and bold move, Connor shifted to Clipper and knelt down. Both had studied the maps, and knew the small town ahead of them. Connor's eagle eyes had spied the Templar they were seeking. Johann Rall was barely dressed in his breeches, shrugging into vest and coat against the frigid morning, and Connor started explaining to Clipper. "Down King Street, near the corner of Second Street. Shrugging into his coat and shouting. No musket, sword by his side. Shouting and organizing his men."

"Got him," Clipper said, starting his controlled breathing as he lined up his shot.

With the chaos of Americans completely routing the Hessians, Clipper let his long rifle fire, and both Assassins watched as blood spurted from Rall's side and he fell.

The battle was over swiftly. The Americans, weary and exhausted and with almost nothing, had defeated the fearsome Hessians completely and utterly.

Washington looked on and finally nodded to himself. "I think we'd best get into town."

Knox, in charge of the artillery, was smiling widely as he silenced the guns.

The church had become an impromptu infirmary, and as Washington and Connor rode through Americans who cheered as they filled wagon after wagon of supplies, they were guided to a small pew in the church where two Hessians were. One was Rall, bleeding, gray-skinned, and almost dead. The other was his interpreter. Words passed between Washington and the interpreter, but Connor ignored it, looking at Rall and searching him discreetly while looking like he was inspecting the wounds. It was fatal. With so many around, Connor could not offer a cleaner or faster death, but it would not be long now. Instead, Connor placed a hand on Rall's head and offered a soft, "_Niá:wen_." For this man had lived as a man, likely had friends and family, and as such deserved thanks for existing, even if he ultimately served Flint.

Clipper stood guard at the door, but he gave a solemn nod to Rall.

As they left, Washington looked to Connor. "Are you satisfied?"

Connor shook his head. "Needing to take a life is never satisfying. Nor should it be. But I am glad that you are safe." He handed Washington a note he'd found in Rall's pockets. "I am also grateful for the barrier of languages."

For, written in English, was a warning that the Americans were coming in a large force. In English. That Rall could not read.

Washington let out a tense sigh. "And where will you go now? We could use you here."

"I am needed elsewhere. Just as you fight here and, in the south, there are other places where I face this enemy."

Clipper brought up their horses and they mounted. Connor debated strongly telling Washington of Lee, but with Lee's capture, Washington was safe for now. Perhaps next time. It was time to head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very, very famous painting of Washington crossing the Delaware for the attack on Trenton, riddled with lionized inaccuracies that still brings up a wellspring of emotion when looking at it. This was the proof of concept for the war - not Boston, not New York, but this. We talked about it in the chapter but Washington had, basically, less than 5,000 people under his command because everyone had deserted back to their farms when the feelings of solidarity faded. The password of "Victory or Death" was meant literally: there would be victory or everyone would die and the revolution would be over.
> 
> The reason Washington's strategy worked so well was because of the Puritan heritage of the Colonists. Christian holidays like Christmas were downplayed as much as possible - sometimes outright ignored in the right parish - for a sober lifestyle in keeping with the Bible. Frivolity was a sin, and Washington was banking on the fact that the Hessians, Germans, aka not Puritans, would celebrate outrageously and he could sweep in. It worked, by the skin of their teeth, and is one of the few victories Washington has at the beginning of the war. That gives us two high points in as many chapters: Declaration of Independence and the Battle of Trenton. It all goes downhill from here though.
> 
> Connor came thiiiiiiiiis close to telling Washington everything, but for narrative reasons he held off, and now Achilles is going to punish him for that near miss for the next couple of chapters while we cool our heels until the next memory. Connor himself shows even more signs of growth - he's becoming his own thinker as he looks at Achilles' principals and justifications and comes to his own conclusions. He's also treating his PTSD in what we had to assume was an appropriately Kanien'keha:ka way. We couldn't find much research on how they dealt with stress, their medical knowledge is limited to something called the False Face Society, which is exactly what one pictures it to be - wearing masks to draw out evil energy and chanting and soups. Again, if anyone out there really is Mohawk and can tell us how absurdly off the mark we are, let us know. We tried, we promise!
> 
> Note that Achilles has given another dire prediction: that Connor can never return to his people. No foreshadowing there, nope. None at all.
> 
> Also, Ellen and Big Dave. Whee! Ellen especially we took a lot of care with (though after Brotherhood and Revelations this should surprise no one) because, while she might not be our favorite homesteader, she is the most interesting given the times she lives in, and we did our best to make her arc as grounded and realistic as possible. Big Dave is more of a question mark - he has an "American" accent, but depending on when you recruit him he's being beaten by either Regulars or Patriots, so we fudged the logic as best we could. More on both of them later.
> 
> Next chapter: Faulkner and New York.
> 
> Also: AC: Syndicate! Whee! Evie Frye is as awesome as we hoped she'd be! We're off to explore London - no spoilers please!


	19. Recruits

The ride back to the Davenport homestead was long. Connor's mind was filled with his meeting of Washington, the large man with a quiet voice and a suspicion about Connor's motives. The commander was grateful for the help, happy for anything he received, really, but understood in the blink of an eye that Connor had his own goals and motives, and the twenty-year-old's reticence on the hows and whys made him wary. Connor did not want Washington wary – or at least, not wary of _him_– he wanted the big man to be wary of _Lee_, and Ben Church still captured in Massachusetts, of Haytham Kenway, his _raké:ni_. The man now knew he was the target of an attack, but by Connor adhering (in part) to the Old Man's advice had hurt more than helped. The thoughts bothered him all the way back to the homestead, and he knew that come February, when he knew for certain his arm was healed, he would go back to the front lines and tell Washington the truth. All of it. Half a picture was not enough.

Word came up that Washington was at least busy after his Christmas victory at Trenton; he had also defeated the regulars a second time at Princeton, forcing the redcoats to retreat back to New York, giving the continental army a bit of breathing room and an enormous boost of morale, all the towns and villages were singing praises at the Christmas miracle, and the idea of victory started to become a possible outcome.

Clipper and Connor carried the news all the way to the homestead. Myriam was the first to see them, having a horse full of pelts coming down the path for a trip to Salem and then Boston to sell her wares. Diane's youngest saw them next and soon the whole town was gathered to hear the news – they assumed from Boston at first, never quite knowing where Connor went on his trips, and drinking in every detail of the war. Reaching the manor was delayed by two hours as Connor and Clipper were dragged to the Miles End and forced to recount their adventure in detail. Clipper was unable to articulate, leaving Connor to give and abridged version of their crossing of the Delaware, speaking of the inclement weather, the surprise of the Hessians, describing the tiny village of Trenton and the seemingly impossible odds. The men, Godfrey and Terry, Big Dave and Lance, drank in the details thirstily, clapping backs and howling at certain details, while Lyle asked some very pointed questions about the overall health of the army and muttering about winter conditions. Prudence held her precious son close, terrified at the events, as Ellen did with her daughter. The Scotswomen laughed it off, saying boys will be boys, and Lance was quick to start quoting his beloved Sam Adams at the importance of the war while Big Dave said it was little more than a rebellion. That sparked a heated debate, and Connor and Clipper at last found an excuse to leave.

Achilles was at the door, awaiting their return, and Connor realized the Old Man _always_ awaited his return, was always at the door to see his safe homecoming. Something swelled in him, warm and tight but not anxiety, and he gave a soft smile and a nod.

After that was the report on everything the two of them had observed, deduced, and inferred of their trip. He barely batted an eye at news of Charles Lee's capture, nor of the success against Rall. Clipper was dismissed in the hour; even after so much training he was never and would never be particularly bright. Connor stayed longer, as the Old Man began speaking of Washington.

"You told him of secret enemies and spies?" he demanded.

"Yes," Connor replied. "He could not understand why I was there if he did not. I did not speak of the Order, nor the Templars; I do agree with you that the story is fantastic and hard to accept, but he needed to be told _something_."

"No," Achilles said. "He didn't need to be told anything. You did not need to meet with him at all. You could have wandered the camp, just another miscreant playing at soldier, and dealt with Rall without Washington any the wiser."

"But we did not know where Rall was."

"You just finished explaining that you didn't know where he was _in the Hessian camp_. Don't mince your words boy, you are a terrible liar."

"I am not trying to lie," Connor said defensively, "I am trying to explain why-"

"No, you are trying to _justify_ why you were near Washington. Even after everything you are still trying to rationalize telling Washington of your struggle – and now you have done so. Oh, you've avoided the finer details, hidden just enough that he will never quite know of what you speak, but you have now integrated him into this world, and that cannot be undone."

"I was not the one who integrated him," Connor said softly, ire rising in him. "Charles Lee did that when he decided that Commander Washington needed to be killed. So long as he _is_ involved, why not give him a fighting chance?"

"Because ignorance is _bliss_, child," Achilles pressed. "He's enough to handle without knowing that there are entire underworld cults bent on assassinating him or making him a pawn of some larger game. Let him think that Lee is his second; by all accounts the Colonists needed that man's energy regardless of his allegiance, and now that he's captured the army will suffer a blow."

"How can you _possibly_ think that the arrest of _Charles Lee_ a bad thing? He is-"

"A Stone Coat?" Achilles interrupted. "A demon spawn of the Evil Twin Flint who killed the Sky Goddess when she gave him life? I know what you think of Charles Lee, Connor, and I patiently await the day when you realize that he, like Hickey, like Pitcairn, like Johnson are little more than _men_. Whatever you think of Lee, he is a boon to the rebellion - solely for the energy he brings and his popularity amongst the troops. His motives are a different matter entirely, and eventually his true colors will show, but for now he was good where he was, and you need to understand that. You need to understand that with Lee captured Washington will suffer a long string of defeats because the man is not yet accustomed to running an army, nor are his soldiers accustomed to actually _being_ soldiers. This little revolution is doomed to failure, and you telling Washington about the Templars will hurry that fate."

"... I disagree."

"I know." A breath, then, "That is your naïveté."

Connor burned with the dismissal, and did not speak to the Old Man for the rest of the day. Instead, just to spite the Old Man, he picked Duncan and Stephane when they returned from their missions and sent them back out, this time to Pennsylvania and the Continental Army, to ensure Washington's safety. Duncan, the brightest of the three, eyed Connor speculatively.

"Ye know that Church is under arrest here in Massachusetts, and that Lee's just been captured. What makes ye think that the commander's in any danger with them squirreled away?"

"... Because he is," the young native said, hiding his squirm expertly. "They are not the only two Templars."

"You think Kenway will try something?" Stephane asked, sharpening his butcher knife.

The mention of his _raké:ni_ brought up a wellspring of emotions he could not identify, and Connor closed his eyes to them, instead saying, "Nothing can be predicted with the Templars."

Duncan was not easily swayed, but he understood better than the others that there were other things going on in the young native's mind. "We'll stay for a few months," he said. "Heaven knows whiling away the winter here isn't servin' us any good, lessen' ye count puttin' up two houses at once."

Achilles was furious when he woke up the next morning to find the apprentices all gone, his eyes wide and his weathered frame shaking as he glared at Connor. The Old Man had never been at a loss for words before, and Connor only just realized that this might be a bad thing. He was not a child, however, not anymore, and he needed to start making his own decisions. That thought was the only thing that kept his back straight and his eyes level as he met the Old Man's glare.

A week later a snowstorm brought in the _Aquila_, eight inches of snow, and a wave of influenza about the homestead. Ellen and Maria were both taken hard, as was Warren and Diana, leaving Dr. Lyle hard pressed to keep up with the demand, housing all of them in his home, using the children to fetch herbs from the Freeman farm and the Mile's End. Prudence was terrified of losing her husband, or worse, infecting their barely-two year old child, and even Achilles, in his anger, came down from the manor on the hill to offer his assistance. Nights were spent staring at the hearth in the dining room, eyes on the empty space where a painting was supposed to be; or, just as often, staring at the stuffed eagle in his room, looking at its glass eyes for hours, looking for something Connor did not understand.

"Are you well?" he asked softly one night. "Does the influenza scare you as it does the women?"

"No," Achilles said simply, staring at the eagle. "I've lived through the fever, a bout of the flu won't make me worried. It just... brings up memories."

Memories of what?

But Achilles wouldn't answer, and Connor was forced to change topics. He glanced at the bald eagle, the form he had taken in his spirit vision, the elegant feathers, the curled talons, wings wide open and ready to take off. He could still remember the sensation of flight, wind whipping through him, diving and soaring, following the fiery bird – the phoenix – of the Sky Goddess. He smiled at the memory, his purpose was revealed to him that night.

"It is beautiful," he said softly, reaching out, touching the wing.

There was a very long pause, Connor thought Achilles perhaps didn't hear him, but then, at last.

"... It is."

The silence was more comfortable after that, and slowly the Old Man turned around. "I've... found a painting for the space above the mantel," he said slowly. "It's being held in New York. If you get a moment, I'd like you to pick it up for me."

"Certainly," Connor replied, sensing something deeper.

"Good. It... may not be there, as the house where it was stored lay in the path of the great fire. If so, worry not."

Connor stilled, looking at the Old Man with new eyes. The fire had been in _September_, five _months_ ago. Why bring it up now unless-

The safehouse. Where Connor had recovered after the hanging. There had been a wrapped painting there; Achilles had stared at it often. Was that...? And it took him until _now_ to mention it? How long had he been thinking about this, to make him out and out _ask_ that it be retrieved? What could the painting possibly contain?

Word passed quickly that Connor was on a trip to New York, and just as quickly he had an assembled list of things to do from the homesteaders: deliveries for Ellen, a shopping list for Big Dave, a shipment for Myriam, and contacts for Godfrey and Terry. He was so laden down that Faulkner – with a sly grin – offered his ship to carry the goods back and forth. And so they set sail, Connor at the helm and listening to Faulkner as he guided them around the cape, passed Martha's Vineyard and slowly turning west into Long Island Sound.

* * *

New York...

The memories flooded Connor as he set eyes on the city, and he reached up and touched the necklace Oiá:ner had given him, letting it give him strength in the face of the dark thoughts. Faulkner eyed him throughout the entire docking procedures, and left his first mate in charge of handling the offloading, instead opting to join Connor in his excursion out into the city.

"You all right, lad?"

"Yes," Connor said, touching his necklace. "My _oiá:ner_ cured me months ago."

Faulkner shook his head. "Men don't bounce back from something like that, boy," he said softly. "It changes a man, deep inside. Nobody's the same after that."

"You are right that I am not the same," Connor said, touching his neck and his necklace, drawing strength. "But I have conquered those changes."

"You're a rare lad if you did," Faulkner said, before changing topic. "The Old Man said his painting's on the west side. Wasn't there a fire there a few months back? I've been out at sea so long it's hard to keep all things like that in the old noggin'."

"There was," Connor replied, walking the streets. "I suspect the painting is in the old safehouse. We shall see."

Connor eyed the architecture, studying for the first time with a real eye. The alleys were narrower, the buildings thinner and closer together. The fronts of the houses had extra decoration – what was the word? - _facade_, that reached up beyond the roofline and added decorative arches. Brick was everywhere, and even with four inches of snow the scent of smoke was everywhere as they made their way up the dock and into the city proper. Redcoats were everywhere, bundled in scarfs and marching left right and center, patrols with dogs and bayonets and ugly looks at the Loyalists who flittered back and forth, hoping that none would notice them. He looked at Faulkner, but the old salt shrugged his shoulders. "The Old Man said something about martial law before we set sail," he said, answering Connor's unspoken question. "I gather this is what he meant."

"This is why the Colonists, the Americans, fight," the young native said softly. "So that they have a say in how their cities are protected, how their laws are written, and how their lives are governed."

"Can't argue with that, lad," Faulkner said. "Self determination is the very heart of the Creed, and any assassin can respect seeing it happen with the rest of the world. It's the ultimate freedom."

"Let us go."

"Aye."

They were docked near the Long Island Ferry, and watched as the ship set sail to cross the Sound with its cargo before moving west, crossing Queen Street and navigating the thin alleys that opened up to wide avenues, turning into a circle of backyards being blocked by fences, finding wooden steps that lead up to upper level apartments; apparently the houses were not meant for one family but for several, one for each floor, and each floor needed its own entrance and exit. Connor marked several stores and markets for his list for Big Dave, and he noted several people walking around with horribly potmarked faces and hands, their skin bubbled up and looking ugly. Faulkner saw it and immediately cursed, pulling out a handkerchief and tying it around his face, gesturing for Connor to do the same. "They've got the pox here," he said by way of explanation.

"The pox?"

"Aye, captain, the pox. Sickness worse than the flu that blew through the homestead up north. It'll kill you as not, and spreads faster than a fog bank at sea."

"Are we in danger?"

"Depends," Faulkner replied. "The Old Man always made a point of inoculating recruits when he found them, wanted to prevent things like this from happening. Then the fever came in, and everything started to fall apart after that."

"The fever?"

"Typhoid, another one you don't want to catch, wiped out a bunch of us right at the start of the last war, the seven-years one. The Old Man was never the same after that."

"What do you-" but Connor's question was cut off as they exited another narrow alley and found themselves on a massive avenue, Broadway, and where one would expect buildings there was nothing but blackened piles of brick. Both men stared at the destruction, the entire west side of Broadway was a burnt out husk, shaky walls swaying in the stiff winter wind, heaps of brick laying about forgotten, outlines of foundations peaking out from the snow. Smoke from open fires drifted here and there, people in ashen rags moved from one place to the next, trying to get warm or picking at the debris for any hope of... something, _anything_, that would let them survive.

"Bloody hell," Faulkner cursed. "This reminds me of..." but his voice disappeared, lost in the horror that they were witnessing.

The longhouses were in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, fire and smoke everywhere, and the days after that tragedy. Cleaning the ashes, picking apart the charcoal, looking for the bodies, looking for his mother's and finding it. He had wailed for days afterwards, unable to unsee what had become of the most important person of his life, and he was never the same after that. Oiá:ner had worked with the little six-year-old for months before he felt safe looking at a fire. The smell of this much smoke, even so long after the fact, lingered in his mind and called up memories he had long thought buried. He shook his head, trying to shrug off the emotion, but it welled up in him, and he realized his task now was nearly the same as it was then: to pick through the wreckage to find something. He took a deep, frigid breath, holding the icy air in his lungs until it hurt, and found the stillness he needed.

"Where was the safehouse?" he asked softly.

"Crown Street," Faulkner said, shaking off his own reverie. "Follow me."

They turned right up Broadway, navigating the crowds and the sickness and the destruction before turning on the street Faulkner had named. Connor could just picture the wagon as they left the safehouse, the color of the brick, feeling trapped in his body as he struggled to recover. Now it was an empty husk of a house. The roof had caved in, and the back wall was entirely missing. All the floors had given way, leaving only edges to stand on, and he and Faulkner worried over how to find the painting.

Looters had clearly been there, what wasn't destroyed by the fire was picked almost clean, drag marks of stolen furniture littering the piles of ash and snow; it was a palette of black brick, grey ash, and white snow, the monotone so bleak as to touch something deep in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, and he took a deep, shaky breath to snuff it out as he slowly climbed his way up to the second and then third story. Faulkner was not nearly so good a climber, and tried to sift through the unrecognizable pile of wood, brick, and debris that lay in the center of the structure, the ceilings and floors all collapsed together in one agonizing mess. Connor watched for a time, seeing Faulkner also struggle with the task at hand, fighting off his own memories. It gave him heart to push through his own pain, and he took up his task with determination.

The looters had touched little this high up, the wood sagged too much and offered so much danger. Ratonhnhaké:ton was light on his feet however, and he took a moment to close his eyes and remember the floor plan of the house, of the covered furniture and the wrapped painting. By a window...?

He hopped over several exposed beams, one of them giving under his weight and making him stumble to the relative safety of a small four foot expanse of flooring that still existed. An empty window opened out to the rest of the carnage, the city unrecognizable after the fire, but he was looking instead at the crumpled hearth. The chimney had survived mostly intact except for up here, and he pulled at the bricks hesitantly, tugging one at a time and letting them fall three stories below, well away from Faulkner and his grizzly task. He worked for almost an hour, one at a time, before his filthy hands found wrought iron. Yes, that was right, there was chimney rack here, holding shovels and brushes to clean the hearth, as well as several worn swords. Was it enough...? He worked a little more and eventually wrapped his hand around the frame, still covered in burlap, and he felt a jolt of relief.

"I have found it!" he called down. "It has survived!"

"I'll be damned!" Faulkner called up. "The Old Man will be happy to see that!"

It took another hour of very careful work to pull out the picture. His hands were beyond filthy now for all the work, and he opted to keep it wrapped until everything was clean. It was well after five o'clock now, the sun set and darkness settling over the ruined city.

"Come on," Faulkner said. "Let's find where the crew is staying."

They had just exited to a main road, Connor was more than a little turned around by now, when a child walked up to them. His face was covered in the marks of the pox, a ragged blanket wrapped around him and lesions all over his face. His gaze was fevered, and he stared up at them for a long moment, Faulkner cursing and reaching for kerchief again.

"Doctor..." the boy said weakly.

Connor kneeled down. "We are not doctors," he said softly.

The child swayed dangerously, before trying again. "Clinic... here, lower west side..." But the strength finally left the boy and he collapsed into the snow. Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips and reached down to pick the boy up.

"Don't do that!" Faulkner hissed, reaching out and stopping him. "You're not inoculated, you can't touch him or you'll get infected and then the Old Man will have my head on a platter!"

"We cannot leave him here," Connor insisted.

Faulkner grit his teeth, cursing severely before handing the painting over to Connor and picking the boy up. "Have to burn my clothes after this," he groused before saying, "Alright, he said lower west side. I have an idea where if they set up a mobile clinic. Come with me, captain, and for God's sake don't touch anything until we get you inoculated."

Several blocks down they came across the camp the boy was talking about, and a familiar face breezed in to take the child.

"At least you're not beastly like most of these... _people_," said the doctor, beard dripping off his chin. He set the child down on a simple wood pallet, adjusting his hat before examining the boy. "Anybody who's immune has already fled. Cowards. Michael! We've got another child! Lesions already formed, get the inoculant!"

"We've only got a few vials left."

"I know! Get it anyway!"

The doctor looked up, at least taking in the good Samaritans. "Oh," he said slightly. "I remember you. Hanging. Fever. Infection. Had a Negro with you, never left your side."

"My name is Connor," the young native said.

"Jamie Colley," the doctor replied.

"Captain Faulkner."

"Well, well met, both of you. Very few people these days look outside their own concerns. Between the martial law and the pox and the war... Anyway, thanks for the help."

"Is there more that you need?" Connor asked.

Jamie openly gaped at them, shocked to hear of further assistance. "More? By God I need a goddamned miracle! We need more inoculation from Bellevue and more doctors who aren't afraid of the pox and more time to educate everyone here that an inoculation won't kill them. This is a _disaster_!"

"Hold on, hold on captain," Faulkner said. "I already told you you can't do a thing without being inoculated, and if this poor man's up a creek that effectively cuts off anything you can do."

Jamie's eyes snapped to Connor. "You mean to say you brought that boy here knowing you could be infected?"

Connor blinked. "Yes?"

"Michael!"

In the span of ten minutes Connor was stretched out on a pallet as he was inoculated against the pox. "It's a risk," the doctor said, "There's always the chance that you get infected instead of inoculated, but the process is continually being refined, and God knows I've made sure that I've done all _I_ can to prevent spread. Once you've had this you'll be immune to the virus. I'll keep you here a few days, under quarantine like everyone else, while I send your captain up to Bellevue for the next round of inoculations. Once that's done, you can help me find out why the whole city is so _stupid_."

Slightly afraid at the idea of willingly being infected, Connor gave a long, worried gaze to Faulkner, who nodded his head and explained what it was like when he was inoculated, explaining the entire process and talking about how it worked at the homestead in Rockport – all while cursing at the delay keeping him from going out to sea again and lamenting that the Old Man was surely, _surely_, going to kill him this time.

Connor watched the doctor, Jamie, as he worked the location clinic, walking from one patient to the next. He did not have the gift with people that Dr. Lyle did, he was abrasive and quick to give his opinion of a patient's intelligence. His hands were stiff, fingers sluggish, making him use his assistant Michael for finer detail work. But his caring was obvious to anyone who looked, and he was nearly physically violent if a man or woman tried to tell him to stop wasting his time. There was a fire in his spirit that anyone could see.

Faulkner checked in every day, always reassuring in one breath and decrying his imminent death in the next. Most of the crew was not inoculated, leaving them forced to stay on board with only two or three able to land and deal with the necessary trade. After four days Connor was deemed all set, and in thanks for the unexpected inoculation he got a horse and rode up to Bellevue to get more inoculations for the fretting doctor Jamie. When he and Faulkner arrived the bearded man was beside himself. He and his assistant immediately went to work.

"It's the most effective way to prevent the disease," Michael said.

"A pity people are so damned stupid," Jamie agreed, throwing a glance at the native, "Eh, Connor?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton smirked at the man's well-meaning nature, but the eagle in his mind drew his eyes up the street, seeing a man in a oilcloth coat pointing and gesturing. Something about it seemed off, and he threw a glance at Faulkner, the old salt having seen it as well. Jamie, oblivious to the man, frowned at the sudden change in atmosphere. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, confused.

"Something is coming," the twenty-year old said softly. "Wait here."

And without another word he scrambled up the ruined side of a wall and hopped to a tree, hearing a startled squawk before all noise disappeared, his mind on the hunt. He worked carefully from barren tree to husk to heap of brick, up three blocks before he found what he was looking for, the man in the wax coat.

"It's definitely him," the man was saying to a collection of redcoats. "And it looks like he's got a new shipment."

"We can't have that," said one of the redcoats. "We can't thin out the rebel population if people are going around curing everyone. What if he found out about the blankets? Or actually got help from that hovel of a hospital they call Bellevue? He already ignores the curfew."

"Can't we just arrest him? Serves the bloody idiot right, don't it?"

"Arrest a doctor, are you mad? No, old boy, he'll just have to disappear. Gather the rest of the squad, we'll attack as they leave. Leave the coats behind, let us look like more of these damned beggars."

Connor was seething by the time he returned. "An attack is coming. Are you ready for a fight?"

"Always," Jamie said, "You tell me where you want me and I'll make sure not a single man gets through, but what's going on?"

"Redcoats do not like you treating the sick," Connor explained quickly. "They wish to thin the population of patriots and dislike you curbing their efforts. They will dress as beggars and attack as we leave to distribute the medicine. They also said something about blankets."

Faulkner cursed, but Jamie's face went from white to red to purple. "They _dare_ think...! They have the _audacity_ to...! Those _pigs_ handed out _poisoned blankets_...!"

He was speechless, and quickly reached back into the wagon to grab an axe as a weapon, ready to fight the world. Faulkner stilled his hand, but he wrestled free before Connor tripped him.

"Let me up," the man growled. "I know who that monster is! That captain has been here any number of times, asking if there's anything to do, digging for compliments for handing out blankets to all the homeless here! As soon as he came the pox went rampant – he's responsible for more deaths...! _I'll kill him!_"

The eagle in his mind was shrieking, and Connor realized just what kind of person Jamie was. He was an _Hirokoa_. He pursed his lips and flared his nostrils. As the Sky Goddess wished.

Between the experience of Faulkner and Connor, and the passion of Jamie, a quick plan was thrown together: allowing Connor and Faulkner to disappear into the crowd and leaving Jamie as bait ready to be ambushed so that the Assassins could ambush the ambushers. The regulars were not expecting even a resistance let alone a coordinated attack, and were swept away in the span of ten minutes, Connor leaping from the air to take out two of the squad and Faulkner throwing two knives to get rid of more. Jamie, however, was not so well trained. He grabbed his axe and dived from the wagon onto the captain, throwing a terrible punch and shouting obscenities. "I was a Loyalist!" he shouted. "You were supposed to protect us, not _murder_ us!" He lifted his axe high over his head, hesitating for only a moment, glaring at the captain, and then striking.

He was calm after that, leaning back over his kill, breathing heavily.

Then, his eyes widened in horror, and all color drained from his face.

Faulkner was a hair quicker than Connor, grabbing the man's arm before he fell atop the corpse. Michael the assistant was long gone, having run away, leaving the two of them alone with a wagon of inoculations and nowhere to take it. The two assassins dragged the bodies out into the snowy ruins of the buildings, the ground too hard to bury them properly, Ratonhnhaké:ton offering prayers to the Sky Goddess for the sacrifice. These were not _atenenyarhu_, Stone Coat devils, and he was sorry that they had to die to protect the destitute sick of the West Side. Afterwards they pulled Jamie up into a wagon and Faulkner took the reins. "I've seen this before," the captain said softly, "had a ships doctor once, loved his craft more than anything, but the first pirate raid and he was off to defend the ship. Killed three people before he realized what he'd done, and drank the rest of the voyage away."

Faulkner rode the wagon back to Broadway, finding and hitching up to a tavern before taking the stirring doctor and, on shaky feet, leading him in. "Oy!" the old salt called out, "Whatever rum you got that tastes like absolute piss!"

"I do _not_-"

"Every tavern in every port does, and that's what I want!" Faulkner insisted, sitting Jamie down at a table, Connor pulling up a chair and setting it backwards before sitting down. The young native watched in fascination as Faulkner took the bottle of rum, poured a cup and tasted it, making a terrible face before pouring another and setting it in front of Jamie. As the doctor's senses started to return, the look of horror again crossed his face, but Faulkner wrapped the man's hands around the cup. "Drink this," the captain said, "It'll keep your senses about you."

Jamie, unaware of the drink, took a long gulp before immediately coughing in retaliation for the terrible taste, pounding his chest and offering watery eyes to the sea captain.

"Back to your senses, are you?" Faulkner asked, nonplussed.

Jamie looked down at the drink, and at his hands, still bloody. "I'll never be a doctor now..." he muttered.

Both men blinked. "You mean you are not?"

The bearded man looked up, gaze hazy, making Faulkner force him to drink again. The reaction to the drink started him talking again. "Mother always said I was a bright boy, destined to do things; everyone said it really. Even went to Trinity but... I was bored. Left before I finished to try and earn money. Couldn't find a good fit. Even tried smithing – God-awful decision that was. Burned my hands raw, haven't been able to use them right ever since. Took up with a doctor, finally, found something I was good at. I can't do surgeries, he said that would make it difficult, but it was possible to be a doctor. It felt good, saving lives, but now..."

Faulkner made him drink again.

"But now," Connor said, his sandy tenor soft, "You have saved even more lives. No more infected blankets will be spread, the disease you have been fighting will now become manageable. A man who has lifted himself above others has been removed. Your work has not changed, only how you did it."

Jamie looked at Connor, eyes curiously wide, watery with the rum. "What are you saying?" he asked, words low and blurry.

"I am saying that when you have completed your work with the pox, come to Rockport, Massachusetts, and ask for Achilles Davenport. He will show you how to save more lives than you could imagine."

The next morning Jamie was sleeping off the rum Faulkner had given him, and at last the two could continue on with their errands. "The Old Man'll have your head for giving him another recruit," the old salt said.

"It could not be helped," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "The eagle spoke, and it is the will of Iottsitíson."

"Instinct, then," Faulkner said, nodding, "The Old Man had it, too; could seek out the most inconspicuous young buck and turn him into the best of the best. You two are so alike sometimes it's scary. Come on, the general store's up the street here."

The manager of the store was white as a sheet, arms heavily marked, but he was happy to take the order of smithing goods, and true to Big Dave's word, the items were cheap. Relatively. Connor winced and hoped that Myriam's next hunting trip was comprised entirely of beaver and bear pelts. The Freeman farm was not yet big enough to support more than the community itself, and even with apprentices Lance needed time to make his finest and most expensive goods. Faulkner nearly emptied out their purse buying the supplies, and had to rent a wagon on top of it all in order to get it to the ship, the crew too afraid of the pox to do much.

As they were loading the wagon yet another squad of regulars made their way up the street, two of them talking indiscreetly.

"Captain's on the warpath for that deserter," one private was saying.

"What was his name? Big Man or some such thing? Colonist, right? How'd he ever even _get_ in the regulars?"

"Big Dave. Did in a whole unit escaping, they say. B squad had to be completely repopulated. All the captain ever talks about is that deserter, wants his head on a platter and serve it to the privates like us; use him as an example. One track mind, our captain. Big Dave's in for a rough ride it seems."

The squad continued up the road, and Connor and Faulkner both shared a look, known to whom they were referring.

After that was a trip to the east side of the city, deep in what was clearly an affluent section of the metropolis. They knocked on a four story brownstone, both uncertain they were in the right place, before a dark skinned man opened the door and asked what they wanted.

"We have a delivery from Mrs. Ellen Tanner," Connor said softly. "She said the order needed to be given to the lady of the house personally for her approval."

"Of course, gentlemen," the dark skinned man said, "this way. I shall take you to the drawing room."

Inside was opulent. Connor, having grown up in longhouses and communal living, could not comprehend the gaudy display of wealth in the house; all furniture was polished dark wood, rich carpets covered every inch of floorspace, candelabras were pure silver, doilies were everywhere, fabrics were in rich and expensive colors, and in a small room that was called the drawing room stood a thing Connor had never seen before, did not know the name of, where a woman as opulent as the house sat, fingers hitting small white pieces of the thing and making a melodic noise.

"My lady. Mrs. Tanner's dress has arrived."

"Ah, excellent," the lady said, standing and turning. "You're not Mrs. Tanner."

"No, ma'am," Faulkner said smoothly. "Mrs. Tanner has recently relocated, and she hired us to perform the delivery."

"Relocated? Where?"

"Rockport, Massachusetts, ma'am."

"That rebellious den of revolutionaries," the woman said, aghast. "They've made living here impossible. What on earth possessed her to move there?"

Connor opened his mouth to answer but Faulkner made a slight gesture of his hand to hold, let him continue. "A business venture she simply could not say no to," Faulkner said smoothly, "The lord of the manor there can be very persuasive when he wants to."

The woman's eyes changed slightly, a wry and scandalous look crossing her features. "I can only imagine," she said, voice light, airy... oily. "Well, she can rest assured that I'll pass on her relocation to the rest of her clients. She still takes orders here, I assume?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent, well, let us see if distance has diminished her skills."

The package was unfolded, and everyone marveled at the detailed, layered marvel of a dress. The lady expressed keen approval, and told her slave to pay the men. Connor could not conceal his surprise at the sum of money dumped in his hands – one dress cost an entire hunting trip – and sent on their way. Three other clients payed similarly, Faulkner quickly becoming the default spokesman before Connor somehow insulted them, and by the end of the day they were rolling in raw cash. Both men marveled at how lucrative Ellen actually was to the homestead, and neither man could understand how _dresses_ were so expensive.

They dined in a tavern that night on Broadway. Jamie seemed to be there, two empty bottles at his table. Faulkner set about finding a table while Connor went over to see how the would-be doctor was doing.

"Thirsty I take it?" he asked, eyeing the bottles.

Bleary-eyed, the bearded man looked up "What's wrong with taking a draught or two when the time is right?" he said, voice louder than it needed to be, defensive and slurred.

The young native frowned. "Nothing, Jamie, nothing."

A pause, and then a wide grin. "Then why don't you join me then?"

"Not right now," Connor replied, "maybe later."

"I s'ppose you got important business to attend to," the man slurred before grabbing the neck of a third bottle and taking a long draw; Ratonhnhaké:ton counted four gulps and then a large belch. "I understand. Don't worry 'bout me though, I c'n handle my booze. If you need me, I'll be there, Connor."

"As you wish," the twenty-year old said, retreating and joining Faulkner at a table.

"He'll be fine," Faulkner said easily, downing his own drink. "A week in his cups I'd wager, before he gets sick of the hangovers and decides to deal with it. He can hold his booze, like he said, but he ain't a drunk."

"Is there a difference?" Connor asked, slightly incredulous.

"Sure," Faulkner said easily. "You've seen the crew, you know they'll drink as like as anyone else, but none of them are drunks. Drunks are the ones who'll take it even when they don't need it, will while away all their money on it. We all drink boy, especially we shipmen, but we know not to be drunk on the job."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "My people have no such understanding," he said. "There are many stories of white traders coming in with their spirits, getting my people drunk and then trading. Some of the tribes have those who will hunt solely to trade for more spirits. I will never drink, even on voyage, because of that."

Faulkner frowned, leaning his head into a palm. "Didn't know traders did that," he said softly, "And I'm sorry for it. Cheating a man never gets anybody anywhere, but then, Assassins' have always been a bit smarter in that regard. Too bad you won't drink, you're Eddie Kenway's grandson after all, and he could drink entire crews under the table and ask for more. Rumor was he could even outdrink old Blackbeard, and _he_ put gunpowder in _his_ rum. I'd like to see how long you'd last against the Clutterbucks. Shame, really."

As they ate they went over their lists. Most of the supplies had been bought, and all of Ellen's deliveries made, but selling the cargo was proving slow because of the regular's inspections and the crews fear of the pox. They would be docked for a few days yet, it seemed, and as they were deciding what to do next a large mountain of a man stepped over to their table.

"So _you_ are ze man taking up arms in our part of ze city," the man said, his accent unlike any Connor had heard before. "Vord of you shtopping the sickness has come to me. Glad to be hearing it."

"I'm sorry," Faulkner said, "And you are?"

"Jacob Zengar," the man replied easily, pulling up a chair and sitting without an invite. His head was completely shaven, and his mustache larger and running down the sides of his face all the way to this chin. Every piece of his body under his clothes was muscled, and he carried himself with the ease of a man who was a combat veteran. The eagle in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind was awake again, drawing his eyes to the man's face.

"I do not know your accent."

"_Ja_, I am vhat you call Hessian," Jacob said easily. "I came here six months ago to fight, and you offered me a plot of land to farm and make life, so I left. Ze farm you gave me, however, it was _schrecklich_. All rocks. No soil. So back I am coming to New York, _und_ now, martial law has been declared. For what purposes I do not know, but zere is not a need. I do vhat I can but it is hard."

"We may be able to help," Connor offered. Faulkner made a face.

"Very well," Jacob said after a moment's pause. "I need information on ze man reshponsible for zis. He has men all over ze place – corrupt redcoats. Maybe you can get zem to talk."

"I understand, we will set out in the morning."

"_Gut_! I vait for you."

And the big muscled man left.

"What the bloody hell did you just sign us up for?" Faulkner hissed, eyeing the big man as he sat down by the drunken Jamie. "He's a _Hessian_! Do you have any idea what their reputation is?"

"But he is not one now," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, also eyeing the two. "The Colonists fear them as they should, and it stands to reason that they would bribe them to stop fighting with _land_." Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips at the thought of who might have lived on that land, who had been slaughtered or forced off their ancestral home so the land could be used as bribery. Some things about the Europeans he would _never_ understand. "He saw what that one captain was doing with the pox, and he is glad that we and Jaime ended the threat. That is a good sign."

"It's a sign that the Old Man will _never_ leave you in my care again is what it is," Faulkner lamented. "How is it that you manage to find every problem in a city that needs solving – even when you shouldn't be the one to solve it?"

"I do not need you to care for me," Connor replied, put out by the statement. "I am twenty years old and know how to handle myself."

"Oh, like you knew what to say to those ladies of the house?" Faulkner countered. "Just said the truth, that that woman's run away from her husband? Do you know what those women would do with a juicy bit of gossip like that? Gone straight to the bastard and watched the fireworks. Better to think she's got a business venture than some kind of problem in the bedroom. I'm responsible for you, 'captain', and that means making sure you stay alive long enough for the Old Man to choose to ring _your _neck instead of mine."

"Lies serve no one any good."

"Right up until they hang you for it," Faulkner retorted before he caught himself. "Sorry, lad, didn't mean to say that."

"I am fine," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, touching his necklace. "We will have to begin tomorrow. Do we know what unit that captain from before was with?"

"No."

And, for the next week, they roved the city, through the soldiers and the homeless, the destitute and the affluent. The city was filled with extremes it seemed, from those struggling to live on the west side, and those soaking up the redcoat presence with parties and gatherings. Jamie, as Faulkner predicted, eventually pulled himself out of the bottle, and he and Jacob were seen eating together often. Connor learned that the soldier passing out blankets was connected to three units under the same man, and as the Hessian said, was quite corrupt. Firing squad was a favorite, as was enforcers roving the city at night after curfew. Connor and Faulkner broke up three separate arrests, beating or killing soldiers, and then brazenly attacking an execution, both coming in from opposite sides and using their hidden blades on the muskets before Connor defeated the leader of the squad.

When Sunday came and everyone was at church, Connor and Faulkner stayed in their tavern, eating, when Jamie came up to the table.

"Hey Connor," the former doctor said lightly. Faulkner gestured the man to sit.

"Taking it easy today?"

A wry smile through the beard. "Things got a little out of hand the last time you saw me. Keeping an even keel."

"Good." In ten minutes a plate of food arrived, and Jamie partook ravenously. "Where are you from?"

"Here," the man replied. "Born and raised but I'm a mutt if that's what you're really asking. Think I even got a little of the Far East in my blood. That's what my father said, wherever that bastard got off to."

"What about your mother?" Connor asked, hoping to make conversation.

"She's down south. Haven't seen her in five years or so. She works on a plantation – keeping care of the slaves." Jamie made a face of contempt. "Pff. Slaves. That's why I left. Can't support that business. Owning a human isn't something any man should do. She doesn't agree so I leave her to it. I make my life up here now. Between you and that last batch of inoculations, in the next month the worst of the pox should be contained. I hope it's enough."

"Here, here," Faulkner said through a mouthful of meat.

Jamie frowned a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "There's a man I've been talking to, and he-"

But he was cut off as the Hessian Jacob once more pulled up a chair and sat without an invite.

"Ve vere just discussing ze reshult of your vork," the big man said. "It seems zese military men are after you. Ruining zat public execution really set zheir hair on fire."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded. "I have caught their attention. That is not a surprise."

The German shrugged. "It does make our goals harder to achieve. Ze man ve're after has gone into hiding, protected by his sholdiers."

"We fight our way in, then." Faulkner groaned at the very idea.

"Not possible, even for a man of your abilities. But I have another – less conventional – idea. You vill be our prisoner and ve shall present you for ze bounty."

"But how?"

"I may still have my old Hessian uniform," Jacob said with a sly grin, "_und_ with so many redcoats, finding ones zat will fit von't be a problem. No one vill look at us twice, and ve valk right in and present you. It is a good plan, _ja_?"

"Very well," Connor said. "I accept."

"... The Old Man's going to skin me alive for this..."

The next morning Jacob, Faulkner, and Jamie were all dressed in the regular uniform, red coats, white waistcoats, muskets, gold buttons and scarves for the chilly air. Jacob was in his old uniform, curiously shaped hat atop his head. They exited the back alley they had changed in and Jacob loosely tied Connor's hands behind his back, Faulkner and Jamie flanking him and Jacob leading the procession. Jamie could not march in formation if he tried, and Jacob finally told him to limp instead, make him look injured in the fight to get him. They reached a checkpoint, and the regulars, as the Hessian predicted, didn't even blink as Jacob spat German at them and breezed through to the docks. Connor could just make out the _Aquila_, its familiar lines giving him comfort as he locked his jaw against the whispers that began to circulate around him.

"That him? Doesn't look like much."

"Doesn't matter now does it? The commander'll have his way with him. I wish I could be there to see."

"Look at that! They got the lout! Well done, mate."

"You're gonna get what's coming to you half-breed."

"A real-life savage. Never seen one before. They all so ugly?"

Their abuse was nothing compared to the savagery thrown at him in prison, and he held his head high, ignoring the slights and the slurs, acting as wood, knowing that they simply didn't care to know better. He drew strength from his necklace, from the coat made by Ellen and originally gifted by Achilles, from his hidden blades, from the presence of Faulkner, and he rose above the language.

They were lead to a ship and up the gangplank, Ratonhnhaké:ton stepping with the correct foot before Faulkner broke character. On the deck were three squads of soldiers, standing at attention as their leader was addressing them. Jacob blithely ignored that and stepped forward speaking.

"_Captain, ich habe ein Gefangener für Sie._"

The captain turned, midword, and eyed Ratonhnhaké:ton like a piece of bad meat.

"This is him?"

"_Ja, Sir_."

"Excellent. Gather the men; this is going to be a spectacle."

In the span of ten minutes, Connor, flanked by Jamie and Faulkner, were off the ship and on a dais, a slave auction interrupted for this event, and the crowds gathered as a noose was quickly tied together and swung from the height of the platform. Wood. Think of wood, the strength to the talons on the necklace. Faulkner was tense beside him, knowing what the setting meant to the young native, and carefully maneuvered himself to stand even closer, shoulder to shoulder to offer his own strength.

The captain was happy to shout at the crowd of soldiers and civilians.

"People!" he called out. "Bear witness to what happens to rebels in _my_ part of New York. This man defied the curfew set in place for safety. They assaulted his majesty's soldiers and conspired against the authority of the military. Such blatant disregard for protocol, designed to protect the citizens of New York, will be punished by death. We seek not to control you, to oppress you, we seek only to ensure your safety in the face of conflict and aggression. The civilians of New York must be protected at all costs, no matter their allegiance. It seems this man sought to jeopardize your wellbeing. I will not tolerate it."

Connor spoke. "Your brutality discounts the very goals you spout."

And Jacob, Hessian uniform and all, pulled out his weapons and swung heavily, bludgeoning the captain with such force he flew out into the assembled crowd. Connor yanked his hands free and grabbed his _tamahac_, Jamie swinging his axe awkwardly and Faulkner shouting orders at his crew that had been dispersed within the crows. Bedlam erupted, and in less than three minutes the captain overseeing the three brutal units was killed, as were his subcommanders, while the privates were ushered to safety one way and the civilians another.

Dumping the red coats, Connor and the others fled to the _Aquila_, below decks and waited for the storm to die down.

"Zat man," Jacob said. "He thought vhat he vas doing vas right."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, unsurprised. He had heard such rhetoric before. "He did. As do his brothers."

That caught Jacob's ear, as well as Jamie's. "Who vas he, really?"

How to explain it? "... There are powerful organizations who seek control," Connor said slowly, "nothing more. This man belonged to one."

The Hessian nodded in understanding. "It does not shurprise me. I have seen it in the old country. I don't know who you are but if you should need my help, I am happy to give it."

"God save me, two recruits in one trip?" Faulkner said. "The Old Man will have your hide as well as mine for this."

Jaime still had inoculations to do and a pox to contain, but he stated firmly that once things in New York were controlled, he'd be heading to Rockport. Jacob seemed to debate heavily with himself, but decided to join Connor and Faulkner on the return trip to Rockport, rather than stay with Jaime, despite the close friendship they had developed.

"I have nothing here, I might as vell come now, _ja_?" he smiled through his thick mustache.

Faulkner merely groaned.

But set sail they did with Jacob on board, heading back to the homestead. The spring seas were turbulent, but nowhere near as difficult as it was in the winter. The main problem was keeping an eye out for icebergs floating south as the warmer weather continued to melt snow and break ice. Connor kept with Faulkner, still learning about the ship and proving that he was exceedingly good at predicting the wind.

"I ain't never seen a young jackturd like you who could read the wind so well without years on the ocean."

Connor frowned. He did not know how to explain his vision from Iottsitíson, that he was an eagle reading the updrafts and downdrafts, following the flow and reading where thermals were to rise even higher, or how wind would shift. As an Assassin, Faulkner knew the history of the order and of the spirits of Ezio that Achilles had spoken of, and Faulkner certainly believed in his superstitions, but Connor just didn't know how to describe what it was like to _be_ an eagle. The sharp eyes, the senses, the feeling of wings, talons and tail-feathers, that all needed adjusting to every breeze. The pull of muscles that didn't exist on the human frame, or the lightness of the bones.

"I learned in the valley," was all he could say.

That evening, they were gathering in Faulkner's cabin for dinner.

Jacob grinned widely, spreading his arms out. "Ah! Connor! Sit, sit!"

The Hessian was certainly boisterous. "How are you Jacob?"

"Missing the beer gardens back home. Rum is truly terrible."

"Hey!" Faulkner growled.

"But I am vell. Zis voyage, is very different," Jacob continued, sitting and tearing into his meal. "I came in summer, when it vas hot, muggy, and intolerable. Now, ve vorry about giant ice and freeze in ze vind. Very different."

Connor chuckled. "From all I hear, our weather seems harsher than that of the countries of Europe."

"I cannot say," Jacob replied, swigging back a large gulp of rum, despite his distaste for it. "I have not had a vinter here, and I doubt vinter here will be as bad as Russia."

"You served in that frozen north?" Faulkner asked.

"Briefly. Vish I never went, let me tell you," Jacob sighed. Many war stories started to pass around the table, with Faulkner recounting battles at sea and Jacob battles in Europe. Connor explained how his people went to war in a competition that the Americans called lacrosse, and of how it managed battle to fewer deaths to prevent slaughter.

Dinner waned as the night stretched, and Jacob settled back in his seat. "I am hoping to send for my family," he said quietly. "When the time is right. But we are fighting a var of our own, and I will not put them at risk."

And with Washington and the British still in winter quarters until the weather improved, it would be a time before the campaign started again. "Rockport is safe," Connor replied. "The war has moved past Massachusetts. Hopefully things will die down soon and you might bring your family over."

Jacob gave a weak chuckle. "No rush, Connor," he replied. "I am in zeir hearts, and zey are in mine."

* * *

Achilles was not at the door when Connor arrived with Jacob and the painting, the first in Connor's memory. Frowning, he carried the covered painting from the front door to the office off the foyer, and saw the Old Man asleep at his desk. Connor stared for several seconds, surprised that the old man napped during the day, until he saw the deep lines in the dark face, worn and older than he had ever seen. But, the Old Man was still an _Hirokoa_, and jolted awake as soon as the young native entered his circle. Eyes more tired than expected for a nap looked up, weary and worn.

"I have the painting you sent me for," he said quietly, respectful of those eyes.

Achilles looked at the painting, eye aging even as Connor watched. "Would you like some help hanging it?"

"... Maybe not just yet." Then Jacob walked into the study.

Achilles frowned heavily at the new recruit, which was no surprise, glared at Connor, which was less of a surprise, and merely gave a put upon sigh. The interview was long, Jacob's English was decent and he understood whatever people said to him, but he often had trouble picking out the words he needed, though Connor rather thought that his first talk with Achilles had been much, _much_ worse with the language barrier. At least Achilles understood enough German to get what Jacob tried to say, where he never understood Connor.

Clipper looked wide-eyed at the giant Jacob, and Duncan, who had returned from Washington's winter quarters with Stephane, merely took it all in stride. Stephane glared at Jacob, frowning heavily, before they started talking food. Then Jacob was fully accepted.

After being at sea for so long, Connor was looking forward to some rest before heading down to New Jersey himself (preferably by horse this time) to find Washington and speak to him about the Templar threat. Still, he helped Faulkner's crew with unloading all the smithing tools Big Dave had asked for, and led the draft horses up the steep hill to the village. Dave himself had heard of the arrival of his tools and soon joined them, up in the wagon and looking over everything. "This is all brand new! How could you afford all of this new?! Connor I owe you so much for this!"

"It is to benefit our village," Connor replied. "By helping others, you repay me."

"God bless you!"

Soon several of the stronger men of the village were helping unload the heavy equipment, with Dave barking orders on where it went with an excited gleam in his eye. Connor helped, stretching his muscles and straining with the others, before Dave started to throw them out so that he could organize a proper smithy.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Connor walked across the street to Ellen. Her house was farther along that Dave's, given that he'd been waiting for the tools so that he had a better idea of the size for his smithy, and seemed complete except for paint and trimming. Inside, however, was still barren.

"Hello, Connor," Ellen said quietly, glancing out the window and across the street to Big Dave.

"Hello," Connor said just as softly. "Your clients in New York have been informed of your change of address." He pulled out his wallet and started counting out the massive amount of money that Ellen's dresses had made. "Here is your payment as well as a few new orders," he said, passing over a stack of papers that had such detailed requests on things he'd never heard of, Connor was convinced he'd never understand a white woman's clothes.

Ellen smiled brightly, counting over the money again to double check.

"Connor, this is more than I was expecting," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I won't take charity."

"It is not charity, but my own order," Connor replied. He reached up and touched his necklace again. "My _oiá:ner_, my clan mother, has done much for me since my mother died. Most recently, she has performed another great task for my benefit. I wish to make her something. She is ever growing older, and the winters in my valley remain difficult. I will be making her a _wampum_, as my thanks, but perhaps..." he looked to Ellen. "Something warm, easy to move or dance in for our ceremonies, something..."

"Something to show your appreciation," Ellen said with a warm smile.

"Yes." Connor shook her head. "She has been old ever since she took me in, and I am uncertain how much time she has left."

She had looked so old after his last visit, her lips pursed tightly, her shoulders more bent. She was such a fixture in his life, as his mother had been, but where his mother had been taken, killed so suddenly, he could see the age in his _oiá:ner_. She was still healthy, running the clan, and doing all her work, but for how much longer?

Ellen returned some of the extra money. "I'll take a down payment, but don't pay the rest until I've made it and you're satisfied."

"Of course."

Ellen pulled out her small book and pencil. "I don't suppose you know her measurements?"

Connor winced and squirmed. "Um, no?"

Ellen sighed.

Later that week, Connor was down at the _Mile's End_, enjoying what Lance called a "Men's Night Out," with Warren, Lance, the scotsmen, and Lyle. Dave had been there briefly, but was still excited about his new smithy and already hard at work at what he called "back orders" of what he felt he owed to so much of the town.

Lance, deep into his cups with Terry, was loudly shouting how good Dave's work was and how having iron accents for some of his furniture was already making him rework his prices to get more income. Godfrey was smiling about a new set of axes that Dave was working on, the first already finished and delivered and proving to be very well crafted. Warren had put in an order for a new plow and was looking forward to clearing a new field for more plantings with the improving weather and started to talk to Godfrey about what trees he wanted remove.

Connor smiled, so glad that the community was thriving and doing well and, in many ways, living as his did.

Lyle leaned over to Connor as the rest started to speak a touch to loudly. "How are you doing?"

"I am well," he replied, flexing his arm. "I have recovered and am already strengthening my arm."

Lyle nodded with a wide smile. "Good. Come see me tomorrow and we'll give you a clean bill of health."

"How are Dave and Ellen?"

"Dave is fully recuperated," Lyle replied. "Still a little twitchy about items near his neck, but improving every day. Ellen, I'm more worried about."

Connor blinked. She had seemed fine when he visited her. "Oh?"

The doctor let out a long sigh, looking down to his glass. "There are two types of doctoring that people need, Connor," he said softly. "I am one kind. I doctor the body. Heal bones, scrapes, sickness, disease. But sometimes the soul needs doctoring, and I try my best here with it, but I'm not the best person for the job."

"Doctoring the... soul? You mean the spirit?"

Lyle nodded. "Same idea. Most scars, like that on your cheek, can be seen and understood. But sometimes the soul is scarred. Those are harder to see and harder to heal. Ellen's husband left such scars, and she hardly trusts any of the men here. She's particularly scared of Dave, given his size, and some of the farmhands or miners for the same reason. Maria is young, she's bouncing back well, and playing with all the other children is the best thing that could happen. But Ellen won't talk to any of the men unless someone else is there. I think I'm the only exception because I'm so scrawny. That's not healthy. I'm doing what I can, but she won't talk about it."

Connor nodded. He knew that he was also very tall and built, but Ellen never seemed to fear him. But then, she had seen him weak and broken after his time in jail. He doubted she could see him as intimidating. And unlike many of the men in town, he was very soft-spoken.

"I have never heard of a doctor for the soul," Connor replied. "Where might we find one?"

"A priest, Connor," Lyle replied. "Forgive me, I sometimes forget that you didn't grow up in the white man's world. A priest is usually the doctor of the soul. I do the best I can, but I'm not particularly religious."

"I will keep an eye out."

"The hard part will be finding a quiet one," Lyle replied.

"Connor." He turned, surprised to see the Old Man.

"Ah!" Terry shouted. "Achilles! Join us! Drink us under the table again!"

"I need you to sail with Faulkner down to New Orleans."

Connor blinked. "But I have just returned."

"And now you'll be on your way," Achilles replied firmly. "We have a branch down there that we haven't spoken to in decades and I need you to reestablish contact."

Warren, swaying slightly frowned. "But Connor has yet to see how my son has grown! Have you seen him Achilles! He's bigger every day!"

"Come on, Connor. We have much to go over."

He _refused_ to pout and instead let out a long sigh. "Have a good evening everyone."

"Be seein' ya!"

* * *

Sailing so far south was a strange experience for Connor. It seemed to get progressively warmer every day and the air damper. Forests that should still be barren in March back home were already budding or in full bloom. Ground that was still frozen back in Massachusetts, his valley, or even around New York was already getting plowed by farmers and crops were already starting to grow. Very strange indeed. Even the vegetation seemed to change as they hooked around Florida, becoming what Faulkner called a jungle, with strange plants called palm trees and even stranger beasts called crocodiles or alligators. Tall spindly pink birds walked through the glades in large flocks, and huge fat creatures called manatees or dolphins would swim along their ship.

It was all so bizarre, unlike anything he'd ever seen.

"And this is common this far south?" he asked Faulkner.

"Oh yes," the old seafarer replied. "The jungle's even thicker in the Amazon. I'm told that Africa itself has some thick jungles completely different from these jungles in the Americas, but I've only ever seen deserts in Africa."

"Deserts?"

"See those white sands? Spread it out for as far as the eye can see, hotter than the sun, and with the very air rippling." Faulkner shuddered. "Only ever ported near the desert once. Sweated away almost fifty pounds before we could finally be on our way. Never went back after that."

Connor shuddered to even imagine what that was like.

"Now summer down here, _that_'s rough. Not as hot as the desert, but the air's so thick you can cut it with a knife. Rainstorm doesn't even try to give any relief."

Connor wasn't sure he believed it.

"Best let me handle the wheel now," Faulkner said. "Bayou here can be tricky, never know what's under keel."

"Bayou?"

Connor hadn't felt so much culture shock since he'd first entered into the white man's world. Then, the culture had been different but the environment basically the same. Here it was the opposite. The culture was still the white man's culture, but the environment was just so _foreign_. And even that statement wasn't entirely accurate, since this was slave territory.

And New Orleans had a thriving slave market.

New Orleans was a city barely sixty years old, and a Spanish city for just under fifteen years. Originally a French colony, after the French and Indian War, it had switched hands to Spain. While docking, Connor was able to identify some English, but the rest was all noise to his ears. Faulkner explained that there was French, Spanish, a fair bit of German, and a lot of African languages from the slaves recently transported over who had yet to learn the language of their owner yet. Connor could not help but wonder how anyone was able to communicate in such a cacophony. At least in Boston and around the American settlements he'd been to, most spoke English, even if with a thick accent. Here, he realized that he yet again faced a language barrier.

This was going to be a long day.

Faulkner took the lead in asking questions and directions, and Connor simply tried to remind himself of wood as he walked amongst so many people the color of earth and not a single one of them free. He did not understand why they simply didn't run. There was no overseer here, as there was on plantations, why not just disappear into the forest... the bayou? But Connor reminded himself that even escaping like that did not guarantee freedom, simply a life on the run. And any of the slaves who had families had a lot to lose.

So Connor locked his jaw and focused his eyes to his feet, unable to look around him without wanting to _do_ something. He wondered what people had been removed from their land to create this city.

"_Mademoiselle__, où est le Grandpré Magasin Général?_" Faulkner asked.

Grandpré? That was the name of a trading post where they were to meet their contact. Connor risked glancing up, locking his jaw even more tightly as a dark child barely thirteen rushed in front of him with a tall stack of packages of some kind. The woman Faulkner was talking to was white, close to Faulkner's age, and blushing brightly before hiding behind a fan. Clearly Faulkner was charming the poor woman. But they did receive directions and came to a trading post in the merchant district.

All Connor could recognize of the sign was "Grandpré" and as they entered, he had to admit some relief that the store was like any other general store he'd been to. A large variety of goods were on display, from tea, to dresses, to solid rifles and strange short thick swords that Connor had not seen before labeled as "machete". They walked to the counter, where a black man stood smiling.

"_Bonjour,_" Faulkner greeted. "_Nous sommes ici pour voir Monsieur Blanc_?"

"_Il n'est pas ici maintenant. Veuillez venir et attendre._"

Faulkner turned and smiled. "We're to come and wait." The black man brought them to a small office behind the store and settled them into a pair of chairs. Not knowing how long the wait would be, Connor settled in to practice stillness while Faulkner browsed the books.

It was an hour later when Connor's ears picked up someone silently coming through the back door. Standing, he turned to greet whom he hoped was the contact Achilles had sent them to see.

A white man with a tall forehead and brown hair pulled back to a tail, dressed in blue and white much as Connor was, the man looked at them wide-eyed for a moment, muttering almost silently "_Assassins_," before giving a wide smile. "_B-bonjour! B-bienvenue!_"

Connor sighed at the language barrier.

"_S'il vous plaît, est-ce que vous pourriez parler l'anglais? Mon ami ici ne parle pas un Français._"

"_Bien sûr_. My English is not _parfait_, but I can manage."

Connor couldn't quite hold back a relieved smile. "My thanks," he replied. "You are aware of the Assassins?"

"Y-yes, of course," the man replied. "I am Gérald Blanc, and I am zhe information agent of zhe area."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Connor replied. "Thank you for taking the time to see us."

"Not a... problem," Gérald replied, taking a seat behind the desk. "How may I... how may I help you?"

Gérald, it seemed, had a naturally stuttering and nervous disposition.

"We are reinstating contact," Connor replied. "Achilles Davenport has been out of touch for a long time and as our Brotherhood in the colonies grows once again, we are expanding our information network. I understand that we once worked with the mentor down here?"

"B-briefly," Gérald replied. "Zhe mentor, he does n-not speak of his past often. I fear he was as hurt and betrayed as Mentor D-davenport was." The agent let out a long sigh. "He is no longer the same man I knew as a child."

"Sorry to hear that lad," Faulkner said softly, if awkwardly. "We all go through scrapes that hurt us and some can handle it better than others. 'Course it depends on the kind o' hurt."

"_Oui_." Gérald looked away again before bringing himself back to the conversation. "You have traveled a long way... just... to say _'Bonjour_'. Is zhere anyt'ing... we can help you with?"

Connor smiled and pulled out the list Achilles had given him. "We have much to go over."

It took the better part of two weeks to go over information, contacts, how to get in touch, where one information network ended and another began, what sort of codes or passwords for one group to reach another, how to organize smuggling of supplies up the Mississippi to the patriots who were fighting the British, what contacts each side had across the ocean, etc. Connor learned that Charles Dorian, the man who had warned Achilles of Johann Rall had been killed just as Washington had won in Trenton, and that things in France were getting... odd as there was talk of the Templars and Assassins coming to a peaceable treaty. It hadn't happened yet, but apparently the Templar Grandmaster was in talks with the Assassin Mentor at the very least.

Gérald was extremely helpful, if constantly stuttering and easily flustered and thinking over his words. But he was a genius at gathering information and often offered advice for their own information network and how to recruit informants without them being aware of it.

Once, in all these meetings, did Connor see whom he _knew_ was an Assassin. A woman in a green dress, elegant, poised, and charming, walked in to ask Gérald a question before offering a quiet apology and retreating. She was of mixed heritage, as Connor was, though not of natives, but of the slaves. But like Connor, her complexion was fair enough to pass as Spanish or Italian, though there was no denying the darker coloring even compared to Connor. Yet for all her grace and ladylike manner, Connor recognized the grace that came from fighting, the light steps of a hunter. And her charm was the perfect blending of one comfortable in the environment they were hiding in.

Faulkner didn't even realize that she was an Assassin.

"Gérald," Connor said after she had left, "let her know that her skills are magnificent."

"Eh? What are you on about?" Faulkner asked.

But Gérald only blinked. "Of course," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's entirely selfish but we take an absurd amount of delight in the fact that Myriam and Ellen are the primary bread-winners in the homestead. Furs were hands down the most lucrative trade, and dressmaking was an art form.
> 
> Not much happened in this chapter for the overarching story, but the sidequests were covered pretty thoroughly. Two more recruits - a brief discussion on inoculations at the time - a headnod to alcoholism and the Native American (as always, we wish we could do more...), development for Achilles and a small spin of Big Dave's plate as well as Ellen's.
> 
> Connor and Achilles continue to disagree. Note that Achilles has a lot of side missions for Connor to do. That's not by accident.
> 
> Next chapter: Priests, folding chairs, and visitors from New York.
> 
> Syndicate: only on sequence four, busy taking over London, no spoilers please!


	20. Defending the Homestead

The trip north had many stops for trade, though that was no surprise, and Connor joined Faulkner in many of the cities and towns. Not because he wanted to be surrounded by slavery, far from it, but by being in New Orleans, he realized that simply ignoring it didn't make it not exist and he was denying himself knowing more of the white man's world by staying on the ship to avoid the slave auctions or the slaves running here and there. He could not blind himself to the world. He needed to learn.

It was difficult.

Extremely difficult.

He didn't dare leave Faulkner's side as the old sea Assassin's presence was perhaps the only thing that kept him from storming every city to free every slave he saw. Or buying all their freedoms. He focused on wood and stillness, trying to contain everything. His chest felt like it would burst facing all the injustice around them. He could barely speak in the southern communities with how he locked his jaw to keep himself from reacting.

Aside from trying to learn, as much as it turned his stomach, Connor also made a point of visiting the churches. Aside from visiting the Old North Church in Boston for meetings of the Sons of Liberty or other community events, Connor had never actually been to a white man's church. He had learned how it worked from Achilles, and how there was often corruption right alongside those who meant well.

The first thing Connor noticed about the white man's church was that the pastor or priest yelled. A lot. Screaming of damnation, the horror of sin, the repudiation that every living breathing being faced because everyone was a sinner and needed to confess! Confess! That the Godless, those who were savages were doomed to hell without even a chance of redemption, because they did not even believe in God and were heathens! That the only way to save the Africans, the savages, those in the Far East, was to bring God to them, else they would all die horrible painful deaths in the end of days!

Connor did not see how such men could be doctors of the soul.

At first, he thought it was merely how things were down south. That this was the result of a culture of slavery that was aware that what they were doing was wrong, but unable to stop. So naturally, their preachers, their doctors of the souls, recriminated them. But even as they made a brief stop in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the preachers were still spouting the same rhetoric. Was there none who were simply quiet men of their God? Such loud spewing of hateful words would not do for those who were wounded in his community. Ellen wouldn't handle it well, and Prudence would wilt. No wonder Lyle said it would be hard to find a quiet pastor.

Returning to Rockport, Connor and Faulkner both spent the better part of three days going over everything they'd learned and gone over in New Orleans. Achilles expanded on it, already preparing to send word to Gérald and all of the other contacts they had. It was grueling. And between all this, Jacob and Jaime had arrived from New York to start their training and Connor was in charge of all that as well as continuing with everyone else.

It was late June and though it was warm, it felt more pleasant than it had in New Orleans. Being kept so busy was vaguely annoying, but Connor enjoyed always having something to do. The only part that frustrated him was that he needed to go see Washington and inform him of the danger. Yet there was so much to do now that Jacob and Jamie had arrived, particularly for Jamie who wasn't a trained fighter.

One rainy afternoon, Connor was heading out from the manor, down to see Big Dave about crafting an axe that Jacob had asked for. He found Norris, however, pacing back and forth on the road.

"It is perfect, no reason to be nervous," the miner was muttering, "just walk up there and give it to her... That shouldn't be a problem..."

Connor walked over, wiping some water from his eyes. "Norris! What are you doing out here?" Norris was usually at the mine, and made stops in town once he had a large load. Then Connor remembered one very particular encounter up at Myriam's camp. No, Norris didn't _just_ stay at the mine.

Norris looked up, surprised, and looked around nervously. "I..." he sighed. "I have a gift for Myriam. I've noticed she needs a new knife for skinning. I found the iron ore myself and have been irritating Dave in my attempts to make a good knife out of it with his backlog of orders. I... want to give it to her." Norris looked around in the drizzle shyly. "Maybe you come with me?"

Connor gave a soft smile. "Of course. What is keeping you?"

Norris looked away. "I am nervous."

"I am certain she will love the blade you made for her," Connor replied. After all, Myriam certainly didn't go for flowers.

They started walking up through the woods, and Norris continued to mutter his nerves as he vacillated on whether or not to give her the knife. "What am I doing? Giving a woman a _knife_ as a gift? It's so _stupid_."

Connor kept being encouraging. "This is something she will appreciate and use."

Finally, just outside Myriam's camp, Norris let out a heavy sigh. "Argh. I made the stupid thing. I might as well give it to her."

"She will be happy."

They walked in to camp, and Myriam was pulling out snares and had her rifle wrapped partially in wax paper to keep the powder dry.

"_Allo_, Myriam," Norris shyly offered.

Myriam looked to him with a bright smile. "Hello, Norris, hello Connor," she said, still prepping all her items for a hunt. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I promised Ellen a bale of furs this week and am not even close to making good. I need to get out into the bush right away."

"I bring something for you!" Norris blurted out. "Maybe it will help."

Myriam blinked, her face slack, as Norris pulled out the knife. She looked at it, picked it up and weighed it. Her cheeks were getting red, but she just stared at the knife. "I really must get moving," she finally said. "I will thank you _properly_ when I get back..." she said, and Connor had a distinct idea what she meant. Norris turned bright red. "Until then," she leaned over and gave a soft kiss on his cheek.

Though Connor thought it impossible, Norris turned even brighter red.

"Do you need another hunter?" Connor asked. "To help get Ellen's order?"

Myriam shook her head. "With this knife, it will get done in half the time."

* * *

Finally seeing Big Dave and visiting Ellen who had finished a beautiful wool coat trimmed in fur for Oiá:ner, Connor returned to being very busy under Achilles. All the Assassins found themselves pushed almost to their limits. Just as they were all about to collapse from exhaustion, Achilles found more for them to do. Connor enjoyed keeping busy, but this seemed to be going a bit too far. It was Duncan who had finally had enough and had them all sneak out one night to relax at the _Miles End_. Ollie and Corrine both were happy to have such a large group for dinner, especially as with the war going on, travelers were fewer. Rumors were spreading that the British were moving down from Quebec to cut off the rebellious New England from the rest of the colonies by controlling the Hudson River, leaving Washington with his hands full as the British in New York were starting their summer campaign, to say nothing of everything going on in the southern theater.

Finally relaxing, it didn't take long for Godfrey and Terry to come in and get into their cups, and Ellen was nervously having dinner by herself in the corner, clearly anxious with all these men around. Lance wandered in and stayed by the bar, somber about something, but Connor was only peripherally aware of it as he focused on relaxing with his fellow Assassins and chuckling at how they had escaped Achilles.

With travelers being so rare, everyone took notice when the door opened and a man walked in, looking worn and haggard under a beaten traveling cloak. He was an older man, closer to Ollie and Corrine's age, but younger than Oiá:ner, by far. Conversation quieted, though didn't disperse entirely, as the man walked up to Ollie at the bar. "Excuse me," he said softly and kindly, "might I impose upon the kindness in your heart to give bed and board to a weary traveler?" He put a few coins on the bar, but Connor could see they wouldn't be enough.

Corrine moved to take it, but Ollie held a hand up to pause her. "Oh?" he asked. "Traveler from where?"

"Across an ocean," the old man said tiredly. "London."

"English?" Godfrey laughed. "Up here? Ha ha ha!"

Connor frowned, as the man had an American accent, not a British one.

"Rest assured," the old man replied, "I'm not the King's man."

Corrine took the coins and gave the man soup. "It's a chill night. This will warm you up."

"A great kindness," the man said. "Bless you."

Terry, swaying where he sat, held up his mug. "We work for what we have here, old man," he slurred. "What is it you do exactly?"

Connor had been wondering that himself, since the man had no bag for tools or trade. Only a small suitcase of clothes.

The man pulled off his hat and cloak, setting them on an empty seat at the bar. He turned, showing a pastor's collar. "I wish to provide God for those who seek His salvation," he said softly, "not spoon feed His word to those who already have their own. God is so wondrous and His words so mysterious, that people disagree on how to even interpret the words. I'll interpret for those willing to here, but if you've already found what makes sense, who am I to question another way of living by His teachings?" He gave a small hallow laugh. "An outlook not shared by the Monarchy. Or many others, for that matter."

"...Lord knows some of us have things to confess..." Lance said quietly, staring down into his drink.

Corrine gave her usual warm smile. "Ollie and I have been missing our Sunday mass."

Ellen stood, glancing nervously at all the men, several of whom had been antagonistic to the preacher. "I'd like Maria to read the Bible," she said firmly. "And I'm not alone. The children around here need someone to teach them. I'm sure if we all pitched in, we could build a church. If _you_'d be our pastor." The seamstress turned to Connor and all the Assassins. "Connor?"

Indeed, everyone turned to him. Connor would be the first to admit that he brought many people to the village, but he did not think that anyone needed his approval as long as they were kind and helped others.

Connor glanced to all of the Assassins, and Duncan in particular, who had the best understanding of religion of all of them. The Irishman only gave a small nod. Cleaning his hands and face, Connor stood and walked over. "Welcome... minister?"

"Father," the old man corrected with a quiet smile. "Father Timothy."

Turning to everyone, Connor smiled. "I think we should be able to get a church up by harvest, if everyone comes together. Ellen? Your home is finished now, correct?"

"Yes," she smiled, "a little barren still inside, but solid and strong. The smithy is just about done as well." Connor did not comment on how she didn't refer to Big Dave by name.

It seemed they had a doctor of the soul now as well. And Ellen was already accepting him.

"Bless you all," Timothy said sincerely, tears welling in his eyes. "This will be a fine place of worship. I am most grateful."

* * *

Almost as soon as the framing was done Connor was off to sea again, yet another trading expedition up and down the coast. News was mixed with rumor that the French had sent an envoy of some kind, but everyone and their brother was expecting French involvement, only betting on _when_ instead of if. Duncan had brought word that there was a long line of French glory-seekers in Pennsylvania begging for a chance to show off how amazing they were and wipe the redcoats out of existence. If only they were paid what they were worth. That sparked all kinds of worries, the Colonists all agreed they needed help, and the French would be a _great_ help, but _they_ had colonies too, and many did not want to trade one set of rulers for another. It was a thin line of tension, waiting for the French to recognize them as country and offer allegiance versus taking their help now and risk their painfully short lived independence.

And, as Achilles had predicted, many missed Charles Lee. Connor grit his teeth and bore the tavern conversations, drunkards directing the war as if they knew what they were doing, as if they knew anything _about_ war, as if just a few simple engagements could end the fight one way or another. Many such conversations degraded into brawls or duels.

What Connor _really_ wanted to do was get to Washington's side, help the commander by keeping him safe from his _raké:ni_ and the captured Lee and Church. The sooner the man knew the danger he was in, the better prepared he would be. He also wanted to see to Tallmadge, learn what he could of the regulars' spies and who if any had connections to the Templars. Much could be accomplished in the Patriot camp, and he needed to _get_ there and get there as soon as possible.

It was August when he finally returned, Faulkner happy to be back at his home port after two months at sea.

Achilles was waiting for him again, he could see the Old Man on the hill, at the front door of the manor to welcome him home. The painting, even after so long, still lay covered by the fireplace, unhung. He turned to the Old Man. "What is it?" he asked.

Achilles' face aged ten years as soon as the question was asked, his bent frame sagging further as he leaned more heavily on his cane.

"... Just an old painting," he said simply, his voice even thinner than normal.

"I gathered as much," Connor replied, wishing he had the chance to open the painting in New York. "Why will you not open it?"

Eyes far older than their sixty-seven years gazed at the painting, face tightening and lips pursing, before raw pain looked up in answer to the young native's question. "It is something close to me," he said, voice as raw as his face. "Something I can't bear to look at just yet. When word came of the great fire in New York, I thought I had lost it forever, and the thought of never seeing it again was too much to stand. Now it is here and the same problem of before has settled over me: I can't bear to look at it. Perhaps someday I will muster up the courage to look at it..." his voice trailed off, eyes unusually bright, before Achilles at last looked away, physically turning from Connor and the painting, "But not just yet."

Not for the first time, Connor realized how little he knew of Achilles' life. Of the time... before. Achilles had said in brutal but brief terms that the Assassins were drawn out and slaughtered during the war, the old war. Sometimes a name was mentioned: Hope, Liam, Kesegowaase, but painfully few details. How much had the Old Man lived through, to make him so reticent of his pain? How long had he held it inside, speaking with no one, before a very young Ratonhnhaké:ton arrived and upset his silence? Perhaps he would never know... It wasn't like the Old Man would talk of it. How did the Assassins fall? The Templars, yes, but _why_ did they fall? What made the Templars so powerful, and the Assassins so vulnerable?

… Leadership?

Connor mulled over the puzzle for several days in the manor, eying the Old Man with new eyes, trying to string together the thoughts that were starting to form in his head, thinking about how often the Old Man would hold him back, caution him, beg him to do nothing. He... was not sure he liked the thoughts he was having, did not want to have an ill opinion of one who had took him in as a boy and taught him so much about the world of the settler, of the white man.

He walked about the village after his morning runs, trying to work through the feelings. Dr. Lyle had turned his backyard into a veritable herb garden, many of the plants he had observed during his trip to Ratonhnhaké:ton's village now growing in orderly rows, he taking note on their progress and jotting ideas for teas and mixtures. The Three Sisters thrived on the Freeman farm, and both were giddy with happiness as young Hunter, two and a half, ran left, right, and center, dashed up stairs, and carried and ate almost anything he could get his hands on. The child ran up to Connor at one point, a wide smile on his face, and slapped his tiny hands on the young native's knee, squealing in happiness, before turning and running helter-skelter back to Prudence. She picked him up and set him on her hips, grunting for the weight, and offering Connor in for a cup of tea. Lance was working with Godfrey and Terry on construction of the church, everyone wanted the first Sunday Mass to be by harvest, and Warren and Big Dave were often seen lending a hand. Norris wandered in and out of the village, a mystified look sometimes on his face which Connor realized was a sign that he had seen Myriam. She, too, came in and out of the village, often laden with furs and dropping them off to Ellen, the young seamstress sticking mostly to her home, often seen in her front yard with a mannequin out and mouth full of pins and needles as she worked in the natural light, or pulling out a corn-cob pipe to smoke. She smoked more than anyone else in the village, and often Dr. Lyle was there checking her lungs and asking her to cough, Big Dave watching from across the way before he went back to his bellows, perpetually hammering at something.

It was one night at Mile's End that the peaceful life ended abruptly, Clipper coming up to the manor and saying Connor was needed immediately.

Frowning, the young native went down the hill and saw several of the crew and Stephane crowded around the entrance of the inn, muttering and talking amongst themselves. "All right now," Clipper started, "the fun's over, time to go back to the ship, let's go." Inside, in the kitchen, was Big Dave and Oliver, old Ollie holding a weathered old gun and Big Dave standing to his full height, cross-armed, frowning at a pale white man who was sprawled between them, harried and looking as if he had just been in a scuffle.

"Gotta hand it to you people up at the manor," Dave said, "They know how to fight. Young Clipper found this guy skulking around the inn. I pressed him and it turns out that he's looking for a deserter goes by the name of Big Dave."

"He is a regular?" Connor asked, eying the man more carefully. He was not in uniform.

"Aye," Dave said. "Put up a hell of a scrap I'm told."

"It was young Clipper," Oliver said, "Thought the questions he was asking were a little too specific, asked what it was all about. That's when the fight broke out. I sent him to get you, and Corinne to get Dave, seeing as how this pertains to him."

"I understand," Connor replied, kneeling down to the soldier. "Your men were last based in New York, what are you doing all the way out here?"

"The whole unit's gone to ruin since he's left," the soldier said, voice shaky through his split lip. "Captain's in a twist, blaming it on the deserter. Wants his revenge he does."

"Damn it," Dave cursed. "Can't catch a break."

"Are there others with you?" the young native asked.

"No! I'm alone! I swear it!"

Connor nodded for the moment, standing and leveling a gaze at the smith. "We need to talk," he said softly.

Without another word the two went out the back into the humid night air. Tall and muscled though he was, Dave was pale in the moonlight, working his jaw and crossing and recrossing his arms.

"We have a problem," Connor said.

"Aye," the smith said, looking down and shifting his weight. "We can't let him go, he'll go right back to the unit and let them know I'm here. Can't kill him. Can't keep him prisoner. Don't know what to do with him."

"That is not the problem," Connor said, shaking his head. "You have deserted. You have broken the rules of the military you joined. Good or ill, there are consequences to that, and they must be faced. What is the punishment for deserting?"

"Court martial for sure," Big Dave replied, "After that it depends. With my captain, probably execution."

"Then I will go with you, and speak to the life you are building here. I am certain others will volunteer as well to convince the captain that your life should be spared. Then, after whatever punishment you are given, you will return here to the community, and you will be welcomed."

Dave offered a soft, whimsical smile. "You make it sound so easy, Connor."

"It is."

"It isn't," Dave replied. "And with him here-"

The eagle in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind called out a warning, and his eyes snapped to the far side of the slaughterhouse, seeing a man in uniform, a redcoat, walk around the corner and pause, shocked at being spotted.

"Another one!" Dave gasped.

The scout, realizing he was made, turned and ran full tilt up the lane.

"If he gets back to his officers I'm done for!"

Connor took off at a sprint, shoving through the small crowd at the front of the inn, Clipper realizing something was up and joining suit, Duncan and Jacob hot on their heels.

"A redcoat," Connor explained as they ran, "If he reports to his superiors Big Dave will be arrested for deserting."

"Ve take him alive?"

"If we can. If he has a horse..."

"We understand ye."

Up the road the woods stretched out over the path, darkening the night sky and making Jacob slow considerably, unable to see. Duncan pulled back to help, leaving the hunters Clipper and Connor to continue on. Ratonhnhaké:ton had the lead, the fastest of all the recruits, and pulled out a rope dart, hoping to take him alive. The eagle in his mind saw the horse however, and he skid to a halt, swinging and taking aim before throwing the rope dart. He felt the impact and yanked, the regular jerking back off of his horse with a grunt and the horse startling, trotting off. The two _Hirokoa_ caught up, and it soon became obvious that the strike of the rope-dart was not as Connor had intended. The jagged edge of the rope dart had pierced too high on his chest, making the blow fatal instead of damaging. He sighed and offered a soft prayer to the Faceless One.

It was a twenty minute walk back to the inn with the body, and the crowd that had gathered at the Mile's End had not thinned but rather doubled in size. There were many gasps to see the body, Connor and Clipper laying it out on a table as someone was sent to get Father Timothy for last rights. Duncan was already praying as Connor went back into the kitchen, only to find Oliver on the ground and Dave rubbing furiously at his eyes. The captured private, the start of this whole mess, was gone.

"Where is he?" Connor demanded.

Oliver, curled on the ground, was first to answer. "Coward kicked me in the gingamaboobs," a word Ratonhnhaké:ton had never heard before but could guess the meaning of, "then threw sand in Dave's eyes. He's long gone now."

David's face, once it was clean, held a mix of worry over his impending fate and relief that he could put off the decision a little longer. Something inside Ratonhnhaké:ton prickled, and he frowned heavily before dragging the smith into the tavern, where Duncan and Timothy and others were praying over the body. The large man's eyes widened at the site, color draining from his face.

"You need to understand something," Connor said softly, the pair in a corner watching the last rites being performed. "You need to understand that I have killed for you."

Dave's eyes doubled in size, his face snapping around to stare at the young native.

"You have expressed that you wish to live, and because of that desire I chased that man, and I killed him. The weight of his life is now shared, it lies on both you and I. You need to understand, also, that the death was meaningless, because you let the first man get away."

"I didn't—"

"You did. I saw the relief on your face. A large man such as you would have no issue subduing that small private, but somehow sand got in your face, and now a man is dead with no gain to be had. You have eaten the life of this man through your indecision. My people have a name for this. You are an _atenenyarhu_."

Big Dave swallowed, the large lump of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "What's that mean?" he asked.

"It means that you now have another decision to make," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "You have to decide if you will eat more people to run from your problems, or if you will face the choices you have made and save the lives of this community. You need to weigh the value of what is more important, yourself, or the people you live with. The choice is yours."

Without another word he left the inn, Clipper and Jacob following. It hurt, talking about Stone Coats to one of the villagers, and it hurt _deeply _to label a member of the homestead as such. But he had learned from his time in prison just how easy it was to become an _atenenyarhu_, how many people were perfectly happy eating those around them and ignoring the needs of their community, content to hate the world and think it owed them something. He had made a promise as a child that he would allow no Stone Coats into the valley, either here or Kanatahséton, and even if his views of the demons had changed, his vow had not. Big Dave would make his decision, and if he ran away again, no matter how valuable a smith was, Ratonhnhaké:ton would let him; better that then bringing more death to the valley. He nodded to himself, taking solace in his decision, hoping it would be enough.

The next week, halfway through August, Achilles lined him up for yet another sea voyage.

"Again?" Connor asked.

"Yes, again," Achilles said. "Life has a curious way of getting in the way."

"But it is just a supply run," the young native said. "The painting, the trip to New Orleans, those made sense. What needs my personal attention for this?"

Achilles shrugged. "It's New York," he said, as if that explained everything. "The regulars are crawling over the city, and Faulkner can't control both his men and the people on the docks. There is also the rumor that Biddle is out at sea again."

Biddle? Connor packed his gear yet again, joining Faulkner on the _Aquila_ and taking his cabin once more. It was a four week trip around the north Atlantic, checking in at ports in Canada and New England over the course of those four weeks. Biddle had somehow captured a three-ship royal convoy, an impressive feat, and launching Faulkner into many a tale of the old pirating days, the legends of Blackbeard and his white shadow Kenway, Captain Kidd and Calico Jack, and others. Biddle was near constantly at sea now on the _Randolph_, working for the Patriots and furthering whatever agenda Haytham Kenway had planned.

It was with great disappointment that they docked in New York with no leads, even further frustrated to catch up on the news and learn that Commander Washington had lost badly at Brandywine. The Patriot army was too untrained, too new to soldiering to understand what was apparently very complex fighting. Word came of a curious name, Lafayette, who had been shot in the leg but ignored it, making an orderly retreat before he was treated. Orderly retreat or not, it was just the latest in a string of losses over the summer campaign, and many were more than a little worried that the bid for independence would result in failure, and many feared how London would retaliate to their most egregious thumbing of their noses.

The pox was still strong in the city, the ruins of the West Side were still deplorable, and the homeless were still desperate for anything they could grab, and the rich were still content to live in the safety of the arms of the redcoats. Faulkner gripped his arm once or twice, making sure that the young native would stay his hand against the injustice he saw. Well, he did until they saw the prices that they were expected to pay for their goods.

"That's outrageous!" Faulkner shouted, drawing more than a few eyes.

"That's the price of the Cause," the merchant replied. "All the foodstuffs and quality wares are going to the army, this is what's left, and there's damn little of it. Either pay up or dock somewhere else."

"Are you mad?" Faulkner replied. "Supply and demand is one thing, I've been in enough ports and done enough trade to know that, but _this_ is price gouging! Who here in this city will be able to afford something like this? Those poor folks on the West Side? No homes or money or food to stay alive, fighting the pox and looters and the beggars for a bit of scrap? You think _I'll_ pay for that when I can sail to Boston or Groton or Martha's Vineyard for half the price? This is bad business! What do you expect to gain?"

"Your money," the merchant replied tonelessly.

"It's bloody irresponsible!"

"It's _life_, you paying or not?"

"Might I have a word?"

All the parties turned to see a figure behind them, small and in boy's clothes, though at a second glance Connor realized that the person had a decidedly female figure. In her forties, she eyed Connor and Faulkner meaningfully, arms crossed, before turning and leaving the stall. The two men followed suit quickly, Faulkner happy to be rid of the merchant, and walked around a corner into a narrow alley. The woman eyed the two of them, face narrow and judgmental, before she began to talk. "Name's Dobby Carter," she said by way of introduction. "I couldn't help but notice you're getting involved in the goings on of our borough. Thought..." She paused, face tightening. "... we might be of _service_ to each other."

Faulkner balked. "Are you propositioning us?"

Connor had a different question. "What is happening here?"

"I take it you're the smart one," the woman, Dobby, said in a wry tone. "Ever since the war kicked off last year, merchants have been demanding high prices for the 'good of the cause.' Profiteering is what that is," she condescended, face little more than a snarl. "It's high time the folks 'round the way got a fair shake."

Connor looked to Faulkner. "Fair shake?" he asked, not understanding the idiom.

"Honest trade," the captain supplied. "You often shake hands on a bargain, a fair shake is one that's honest on both sides."

The native nodded and turned back to the woman in boy's clothes. "How can we help?"

Dobby blinked, incredulous. "That easy? That's a change..." She was honestly short of words for several seconds, before collecting herself. "I've been sniffing out who's responsible. Don't know who the man is, but he's not for Patriots nor the regulars. He's got a fortified camp built around the main water supply of the area. All the seized crops, all the meat, everything is being moved there and then resold at dizzying prices."

"How do we get in?"

"Well, now that there's three of us," she threw a glance at Faulkner, "Two and a half, at any rate-"

"Hey!"

"We can figure out how to do exactly that."

And so they moved to an inn, Faulkner and Connor taking rooms and the three of them sitting together at a table, discussing the camp and the reconnoitering Dobby had done up to that point. One person sneaking in was nigh impossible, which was why the woman had wanted help, she explained, but few indeed took a woman seriously, let alone a woman in man's clothes.

"How did you come to be... you?" Connor asked carefully, still looking at the clothes and trying to determine how such a fate could befall her. To her credit she laughed.

"Funny question but I take yer meaning," she said, her Irish brogue light and airy. "I was an orphan, pretty common around the ports with all the sailors and whores mucking about. I wanted to be out on my own so I did what I had to do. That's when I decided to pretend to be a boy. That worked for a time, until nature decided otherwise and it just became a bad joke. Folks around the borough still called me Dobby but the old codgers started leering and getting fresh. That's when I got tough. Took a good many shots to the face before I learned to defend myself properly but now I dare any man to come at me. They learn the price right quick."

"But why do you still dress like a lad?" Faulkner asked.

Dobby's face hardened. "On account of the fact that if a body wants to be listened to they better damn well not wear a petticoat," she answered bitterly. "Even as a kid I saw that it was better to be a boy than a girl, and the only way I survived that young was by doin' as I did. I tried going back to the dresses and skirts when the change came, but by then I didn't act like no lady. As a boy at least they knew they were stepping in a spot o' trouble before trying to take a hand to me, and without the dress kicking them in their marital organ was a might easier, I'll tell ye."

Faulkner winced at the very thought. Dobby grinned and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and looking perfectly confident. "I am what I am," she said easily, "and I came to terms with that a long time ago. Don't bother me none that people don't understand it, don't like it, or don't believe it. I'm happy with what I am on account that I'm free to do as I please."

The next morning they woke before dawn, the three of them plunging deeper into the city, further north through the crowded streets, Faulkner with his mask over his face against the pox, before reaching a building by a large miller's pond, the water supply Dobby was speaking of. Faulkner was assigned to distract the guards at the front of the house while Dobby and Connor snuck around back, hopping nimbly over the tiny docks to the back door. Connor took the lead after that, the eagle in his mind awake and darting his eyes from one guard to the next, moccasin-ed feet silent as he stalked the house, silently subduing one person after another, until they reached the master bedroom.

Dobby got up on the bed and straddled the man, holding a knife to the throat, keeping him still.

"This is the price ye pay for dooming people to starve just so ye can make money," she said in a dark voice.

"Ignorant child," the man said, voice shaky and scared, but utterly unrepentant. "I would use this money _for_ those starving people, to create a better world."

"A world where half of New York died from starvation."

"A world where everyone was happy in their proper station, cared for and looked after."

"That isn't the world I see," Dobby said, eyes cold. "All I see are dead people."

And she slit his throat.

They left the house, Faulkner joining them some ten minutes later, and Dobby let out a huff of air. "He was a madman," she said, aghast at what she heard.

"Not mad," Connor corrected, "Beguiled by a set of dangerous but attractive ideals." This had been a find, and he was glad to have put another wrench in the Templar plan. In his _raké:ni_'s plan.

Dobby, ever shrewd, narrowed her eyes and studied the pair again. "Is that right?" she asked, tone curious. "And who exactly are ye?"

"Someone who seeks to relieve men like him of their power."

Dobby gave out a sharp laugh, her normally tight face bright. "After seeing what you can do I'll leave it at that. But if you ever need and extra blade, I'll stand by you."

"I would have you now, then," Connor replied, causing Faulkner to immediately groan. "You have defeated your _atenenyarhu_, and you have proven that you understand the battle we fight."

Dobby was eager for a scrap and happily packed up her things and joined them on the _Aquila_ for the voyage back. September was the height of hurricane season and while it wasn't uncommon for one to breeze up the coast and wreck everything in sight the voyage was smooth, Connor at the helm and being called "captain" by everyone on board while Faulkner gave the orders. Twice he asked Connor what he would do, and once the young native gave his opinion the old salt nodded and made that exact order, letting both Connor and the crew know who their second was if anything should happen to Faulkner.

Achilles was less than pleased to see yet another recruit. "I'm running out of positions," he told Connor in a beleaguered voice. "We have a cook, a huntsman, a messenger, then a driver and a bodyguard for caravans, and now what exactly do you expect her to be?" The interview with her could often be heard throughout the house, Dobby was a spitfire and easy to raise her voice as a passion took her. Young Clipper turned bright red at some of the swear words, especially coming from a woman, and quickly retreated out to the woods to hunt their supper. Duncan and Stephane were more amused than anything else, Duncan for knowing several independent women in his family of assassins, and Stephane for having a wife with a worse mouth than Dobby's. Jacob and Jamie tried to ignore the interview for their studies, though both frequently looked up when a new or original curse came about. Dobby was accepted, however, and the Old Man looked even older than usual by the time it was done, retiring to bed early.

After so much time at sea, Connor spent much of his time down the hill in the village. The church was very nearly done, mass was apparently being held to a grateful congregation, Corinne happily espousing Father Timothy's quiet but thought-provoking homilies and interpretation of Scripture. Warren was often seen inside praying, giving thanks for his son, or Ellen was lighting a candle and quietly sitting in a pew, lost in thought. Timothy often offered a "blessed day," to the people in the growing village, and offered certain days to read mail for the less literate members of the valley. The tavern was full every night, the Scotsmen of course, drinking away Oliver and Corinne's ctock. Big Dave was often there, arm wrestling whoever thought they could beat him, and Lance was often in a corner drinking by himself. Ellen and Prudence were nearly inseparable, Prudence often at Ellen's new home asking for advice on raising children, sharing stories, or gossiping about men. Norris arrived from his mine with more ore to be smelted and sold, Big Dave quick to grab the best of the stock – Connor learned that the large man was gifting tools to more than Lance and the Scotsmen Godfrey and Terry; included was a find set of needles – the most delicate work he had ever done, he bragged – for Ellen and blown glass bottles and vials for Dr. Lyle, among other things.

It was the last day of September when word arrived that Philadelphia had been taken by the regulars, and that the Americans had won Saratoga, one crushing blow for Commander Washington and one resounding victory. The entire tavern was talking about it, trying to figure out what would happen next with Gates and Arnold having won, whether the redcoat general Burgoyne would reform and try again to claim the Hudson River all the way to New York, cutting off New England from the rest of the colonies and splitting the continental forces. Ellen entered the tavern with Maria in tow, picking up an order for dinner it seemed, when a small cluster of travelers arrived from the latest ship arrival. Connor happened to be watching Ellen at the time, and saw her face drain in color as she turned to see the arrivals.

"Quincent," she said softly.

"Ellen," the man said, equally soft.

Prudence saw the exchange and, contrary to her retiring nature, jolted out of her seat and walked right up to the seamstress. "Do you need anything, Ellen?" she asked quietly.

"No," she said quickly, "No, I can handle myself."

"As you wish," Prudence said quietly, going back to her husband and child. Her action, however, was noticed by everyone in the tavern, and many eyes began to split their attention. Connor shifted in his seat.

"So here you are," the man said.

"Yes," Ellen said, tone level. "Here I am."

"Can't wait to see who the 'lord of the manor' is that asked you to shack up with him. Was it worth it?"

"Yes," Ellen said in the face of the accusation. "Master Davenport has been generous and kind, and he has allowed me to keep what's mine, and he hasn't asked anything of me."

"Except your bed."

"_You_ asked that of me," Ellen said, eyes hard. "You demanded it was your right as a husband, but you haven't been a proper husband in years, too busy gambling and drinking."

"You mind your tongue, woman, and remember your place."

"That's just it Quincent," Ellen replied, back stiff as a board. Connor realized belatedly it was taking everything the woman had to stand up to this man, scared as she was. His respect for her grew several fold. "I've known my place for a very long time, and now I'm finally taking it. I make things, and I'm damn good at it, and it's time I was treated right because of it. You may have gotten me started, but the minute you thought I was better than you you did everything you could to undermine me and take what's _mine_. I've outgrown you, Quincent. I don't need you. I don't think I've ever needed you."

"You stupid _bitch_," the husband hissed, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

"Don't _touch_ me," Ellen hissed back, her tone loud enough to draw several eyes. Big Dave stood immediately, muscles rippling under his shirt, and Prudence was half out of her seat, Terry and Godfrey turning to get a better view and decide what to do. Myriam watched with hard eyes, as did Dobby.

Quincent, aware of the eyes on him, lowered his hands, storming out of the tavern.

The minute he was gone Ellen wilted into a seat, visibly shaking from what she had done. Prudence was by her side in an instant, but the shaky woman put her off, turning to a horrified Corrine and once more asking for her order. "Stay a minute," the kindly old woman said. "Stay a minute and collect yourself. Here, have a nip, you need it."

"No," Ellen said softly. "I need to get back with Maria."

The next morning Quincent Tanner was at the door of the manor, demanding to know who the lord was and explain why his wife needed to come back to New York. The man's eyes widened to see Connor open the door, but he visibly bit his cheek and asked to be let in. Connor led him to Achilles' study, and the man looked around, confused. "I thought you said the lord of the manor was here?"

"He is," Connor said simply.

"Where?"

Achilles said nothing, merely sitting at his desk and waiting for the husband to put it together. When he did both Assassins watched as the man's face changed from surprise to disgust to contempt and then to a tight-jawed, stiff politeness. "My apologies, Davenport," Quincent said, forgetting or leaving out Achilles' title. Gritting his teeth, he took off his hat and sat down. "I'm here to demand the return of my wife."

"So I have heard," Achilles said. "Why do you have such need of her? From what I hear you had little use for her before now."

"That is a goddamned lie you-" But Quincent caught himself, taking a breath and trying again. "She's my wife," he tried again. "She's a slut and a harlot and she doesn't know her place, but she's still my wife, and how I handle her is none of your business. She ran away from me, and I want her back. It's that simple."

"Oh, it may be for you," Achilles said with a wry smile in his voice. "In your mind she's little more than a stray dog that's run away, and a few beatings and more training will set her right. That's your affair and I don't care one way or the other. However, to me, she is a lucrative member of this community; it is because of her contributions that we were able to raise enough money to build a church in six months' time, it is because of her that the Freemans have better sacks to store their grains this winter, it is because of her that our hunters can carry their meat without insects burrowing in. She is an asset to this community, and I'm not about to let her go. However," he added, seeing the purpling face, "If you wish to move here to join your wife, well, no one is stopping you. If you can make things right with her, and duck the wrath of the townsfolk, then you're welcome to live here. God knows we could use the extra back when harvest time comes in a few months."

Quincent said nothing for a long, long time, working through the very visible rage, trying not to anger a man who had such power over Ellen. Finally, he managed a terse, "I see," before standing without so much as a "by your leave."

Connor turned to the Old Man. "Why did you offer to have him stay here?" he asked. "He will only beat her again."

"As much as you and I know that, it is not our place to determine the course of other people's lives," Achilles said. "Ellen needs to make a choice; she made a good one last night from what you've said, but she needs the wherewithal to maintain it, and that man needs to realize that things will never be the same for him. If we're very lucky, he's realized his loss and will leave. If not, he will try to make amends, and then it will be up to Mrs. Tanner to turn him away."

"And if she does not?"

"Then she and her daughter will have to live with her decision. And that man will have to live with knowing the entire town will be watching him."

Quincent was seen that night drinking his sorrows away, looking miserable and pathetic, talking liberally with Oliver about the "good old days," when he and Ellen got along, when Maria was just a baby and they were young and happy. Ellen heard of this through the women, and for a while Connor thought that she would make the right decision.

On the third night, Ellen came again to pick up an order from Oliver and Corinne, and Connor sat next to Prudence and Warren, all three watching with sharp eyes as a very drunk Quincent tried to talk to her. "Please, Nellie," he slurred. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I promise I'll change. I'll do it right this time. I just want you back." He reached out to take her hand, and she did not reject the touch, but her body was unnaturally still, quiet, waiting for something. When it did not come, she at last looked at him. Her face was hard to read, Connor thought he saw pity, and pained love, and a look of anxiety he knew very, very well.

Quietly, Ellen left, neither confirming or rejecting Quincent.

The next day during his morning run, Connor saw Quincent at Ellen's house, the two talking at her front door. He took the long way back to the manor when he had finished, not wanting to see what the two were doing, trying to keep his nose out of their business. The day after that Ellen sat down with her husband at dinner, and Connor could see Big Dave glaring at the man darkly from the far end of the tap room, Prudence curling into Warren and whispering in his ear, glaring daggers at the man. Dobby and Myriam refused to come to the Mile's End and watch the display, and afterwards the couple left together.

And then, two hours later, Maria came shrieking down the main path, in her night clothes and clutching her arm to her chest. "Somebody! _Anybody!_"

"That dullard!" Godfrey cursed, he and Dave getting up, Warren and Connor following suit. Norris and Myriam, having just arrived, blinked at the sight.

"_Que s'est-il passé?_" he asked.

"Ellen's dullard of a man's trying to beat her to submission," Godfrey said, all of them piling out the inn. "We're on our way to stop it!"

"_Je vien avec vous_!"

"I'm coming too," Myriam added, her eyes on fire.

It was a full crowd: Norris and Myriam, Big Dave, Godfrey, Warren, and Connor all going one way, Prudence and Maria and Corinne going another to get Dr. Lyle. It was a ten minute run up the valley, the door was closed but Dave gave an animalistic grunt as he shoved the door with such force that it broke off its hinges. Curses and shouts could be heard, all masculine, all upstairs, and everyone crowded to the stairs, Connor taking the lead and leaping up three at a time, getting two thirds up before grabbing the landing bannister and hoisting himself up the rest of the way, running to the back of the house and pounding on the only closed door.

"Let us alone!" Quincent said from beyond the door. "This don't concern you!"

"The hell it doesn't!" Godfrey growled, shouldering through and pounding on the door.

"You will face God's wrath for this!" Warren shouted, eyes bulging with anger.

Big Dave grabbed the doorknob and twisted, shoving his shoulder against the frame and listening to the satisfying crack of the jam cracking under the force.

Connor was the only level head of the group, pushing his way once more to the front and pulling out his lockpicks, working through the tumblers as quickly and efficiently as he could. The moment the door gave everyone shoved into the room.

Inside Ellen was in a broken heap on the floor, face covered in blood and glassy eyes staring at nothing. Her arm bent at the wrong angle and her dress ripped all the way up to her hip, showing a bruised thigh; her breath was unlike anything Connor had ever heard.

"In the name of God!" Warren cursed, turning furious eyes to Quincent. "You are a blight upon this earth! You sin against the very nature of God!"

"You bampot jobby jabber roaster scanner piece of _shite_!"

Connor grabbed the man and dragged him back out of the house, Norris and Myriam close behind before hoisting him by his collar off the ground, the fighters of the village fanning out behind him, showing the wellspring of strength that could be drawn from protecting their own. Curses echoed off the valley, and more were coming up the path: Dr. Lyle, Catherine and Diana, Lance and Oliver, all to make their collective will known to this... this... Yes, _this _was an _atenenyarhu_, a man content to eat others, even his family. Ratonhnhaké:ton let the weight of the people sink into Quincent's mind, watching as the crowd impressed into his skull and fear finally took hold of him. Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton speak.

"Ellen and Maria are free of you," he said, voice carrying over the rest of the noise. "I say so. The people behind me say so. Believe me when I tell you if I _ever_ see you on this land again I will _end_ you. It is my fate to defeat _atenenyarhu_ when I see them, and I will see that you eat no one else again."

And with the strength of the bear he threw Quincent to the ground, the man surrounded by the wrath of the villagers, hateful eyes probing him, daring him to counter what Ratonhnhaké:ton had just said.

He looked up, contemptuous even in the face of his defeat, and he spat on the ground. "You can _have_ them," he said, before getting up.

Norris and Myriam, and Warren and the women, were more than happy to escort him down to the dock and get him the hell of the land, and Connor turned and gestured for Dr. Lyle to follow, the men reentering the house and back up to the bloody mess upstairs. Big Dave was still there, kneeling by Ellen and gently stroking her hair, whispering softly, "It's okay; it's okay, you're safe now," over and over as the woman tried to jerk away from the perceived touch.

"My God," Dr. Lyle said, dropping to his knees and immediately getting to work. "Help me get her straight, I need to see what else is broken."

"... not your daughter any more..."

"I know," Dave said, "He's gone now, you're safe."

"... won't take what's mine..."

Connor was left to cobble together a litter from the bed linens, laying it out on the ground as Dr. Lyle quickly started making orders. Three ribs were broken on top of her arm, she needed something to hold her back straight, and soon the room was abuzz with activity, Diana and Connor carrying out the doctor's orders while Big Dave kept talking to her softly, the others looking on in horror as they tried to help where they could. It was a procession back to the doctor's house, where Prudence and Maria and Corinne were all waiting on baited breath. Maria burst into tears upon seeing her mother, and Prudence very nearly fainted at the sight, Warren catching her and taking her to a different room. For the next two hours Connor, Jamie, and Dr. Lyle worked on binding, straightening, and cleaning Ellen's wounds. The knock on her head was the most worrisome, Dr. Lyle said hits like that could be fatal if not carefully monitored, and it was agreed to take shifts in keeping her awake for several hours. Dr. Lyle took the first, ushering everyone else out. Jamie drifted back up to the manor, leaving Big Dave and Connor alone in the doctor's office, both exhausted but too wired to sleep.

"Never seen that before," the smith said slowly. Connor looked up.

"Seen what?"

Dave waved a hand in a vague gesture. "I don't know... _that_. She's just a woman, but she had the spine to stand up to that lout, even when he was beating her to death. She just... She's the bravest person I ever met."

The silence drifted over them, Connor eventually dozing in his chair before Dr. Lyle came in to wake them. "Dave and I can handle it from here," the doctor said softly, his glasses hanging onto his nose by the thinnest of margins. "You've more than done enough, and I don't want the Old Man on the hill to worry more than he already does. Get some sleep, Connor, I'll let you know when she's right enough to take visitors."

Two tense days later the doctor held true to his word, sending a relieved Prudence up to tell Connor that Ellen was asking for him, and he dropped the training he was doing to go down the path to the doctor's house.

Ellen was completely covered in blankets up to her chin, hiding most of her injuries except for the bandage wrapped around her thin brown hair. Big Dave was there, having never left her side.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she said softly. "No one's ever stood up for me before."

"We take care of our own," the smith said gently.

"Not once in my whole life..." she repeated, eyes drowsy. "I'll find a way to show my gratitude to you all... somehow..." She drifted off, utterly exhausted.

"There is no need," Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly, reaching out and touching her forehead. "It is simply what we do."

Achilles continued to keep Connor exceptionally busy, particularly with having him work with Jamie, who had the farthest to go of all the Assassins. Dobby became the defacto instructor of thieving, and Jacob did the most with everyone in fighting and Hessian combat. But the philosophy and history, Achilles seemed content to have Connor teach to all of them. He'd never had to teach like this before and it was strange, recounting what Achilles had taught him years prior, discussing events and what the motivations were behind them and why. There were odd moments of culture shock between all of them as Connor explained what he'd thought of something and they didn't understand where he was coming from. While he was better at understanding the European culture, there were moments between them, like Jacob who couldn't explain something in English, or Stephane speaking of French history or Clipper and his mountain speak.

The discussions were very stimulating, as well as challenging, but as important as these lessons were, Connor still wanted to be on his way to see Washington.

It was early November when Connor was talking about saddling his horse to go see the American commander, when Achilles simply said, "Haven't you given that coat to your clan mother yet?"

And thus Connor was sidetracked, yet again. And as November went from chillier to colder, this _was_ the time to see Oiá:ner and give her the coat. The trek was more dangerous, as all along the Hudson river, everyone was terrified of the British simply sailing down from Quebec whenever they wanted to cut the colonies in half. Every town he passed through demanded news, even though he was coming from the east instead of from the south or north, in hopes that he would have more up to date news than they did.

As the white man's world faded behind him, however, the isolated homesteaders had less concerns about the war and more about simple survival.

The snows of the mountains got deeper as Ratonhnhaké:ton finally reached his valley. Since it had only been a year since his last visit, it wasn't quite the celebration that it was prior, and Achilles still had a long list of things for him to do back in Rockport that he was going to have to return to. But he still spent the week reconnecting, sharing news, and relaxing.

"You have returned to us!" Oiá:ner greeted by the fire. "But not for long, I think?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "My work is not yet done... I am no closer than last time I came, though a new enemy sprouted and has been plucked."

His clan mother stared into the fire, before adding some twigs. "I wonder, will it ever be?" she asked softly. "The symbol that you sought and found... It is a mark of courage and honor, yes. But it promises pain and loss as well. I wonder if I was truly right in sending you after it."

He smiled as he looked across to her withered old face. "I have faced pain and loss, true," he said softly. "But I fight those who burned our village, who seek to do us harm. Every day I learn more and continue to keep us safe. I bear such weights gladly, if it means all here are kept safe."

Oiá:ner continued to stare into the fire. She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing for a moment. "You must not forget to look after yourself from time to time," she said, clearly not what she had intended to say.

"When this is finished," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, "when all are free. Then I will rest."

His clan mother looked to him sadly. "I hope that day comes soon."

"As do I." Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the fire. Life had been so busy, he had to admit he was enjoying these few moments of peace, for all that he felt guilty for it. After all, there was a _war_ out there and not just the one between the British and the Americans. Taking a break seemed... wrong. Ratonhnhaké:ton shook himself, and instead pulled out the coat that Ellen had worked so hard on.

"I have much to thank you for, Oiá:ner," he said respectfully. "You have taken me in after Ista died, looked after me, raised me, healed me, guided me. I have no means to truly thank you, but I do have something for you."

The coat was big, no doubt because Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know her measurements, but a few scraps of binding on the sleeves and waist took care of the problem. Oiá:ner glanced at the material, rubbing her aged fingers over the thick wool and brushing the fur lining.

"_Niá:wen_," she said softly, her eyes shining. "_Niá:wen_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled.

Kanen'tó:kon was not so happy as their clan mother.

"The seasons pass, but the settler threat lingers," he said sourly one evening. "When will we be free, brother?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. "It is not so simple, Kanen'tó:kon."

His best friend scoffed. "You sound like the colonists."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stiffened. "What do you mean?" He may have studied the ways of the white man, but he was _still_ Kanien'kehá:ka, first, foremost, and always.

"They are wise with words, using them to hide truth," Kanen'tó:kon replied sourly. "They speak one thing and do another. They do not understand truth and hardly ever use it unless it is to gain them something."

"I hide nothing from you," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. "I have always spoken truly. You are my friend, my brother, and I fight for you and all of us. I am saddened that you do not believe in me any more."

At last, Kanen'tó:kon looked abashed, as he did when they were children and got into trouble. He glanced away. "I do not mean that you are not truthful," he replied quietly. "You will always speak truly to us. I do not doubt that. But as settlers come closer and closer to our valley, you would have us _teach_, in hopes that _maybe_ there can be an understanding."

"As I said last year, there is no easy answer."

Kanen'tó:kon frowned. "Still... perhaps I should take up arms as you once suggested. Perhaps we all should."

"_Iá_," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied firmly. "That is not the way." He would not have his people overpowered and killed. He would bear that burden gladly and alone, as he had told Oiá:ner.

"You fight," Kanen'tó:kon growled back. "Why not us? Are we not also involved in this?"

Not in the same way, but Ratonhnhaké:ton did not wish to get into that. "I fight so that no one else needs to," he replied. To bring all of his people into the fight of the Assassins would not be right. Iottsitíson had given him this mission, none of the others in his village. It was to be his fight and burden alone.

"But I fear we do, Ratonhnhaké:ton," his best friend said sadly. "For you are just one man."

Connor returned to the homestead troubled. His people would get drawn in to the conflict, despite his best efforts to keep them safe. He needed to hurry before the war fought its way to his valley and his people had to choose sides.

Riding back through Massachusetts, Connor learned that the Congress had created Articles of Confederation, organizing the various colonies into a government that would live together and continue even after fighting off the British, assuming they won. Massachusetts was already in debates and preparing to ratify it, though there was a lot of discussion and talk about what it meant and how it would be put into practice. Lafayette, whom Connor had heard of briefly through all his sailing and travel seemed to have received control of an entire division, despite being the same age as Connor, and had defeated a massive group of Hessians in Gloucester.

Frowning, Connor wondered when Washington would settle in for the winter. Granted, further south was warmer than up here, but New York and New Jersey weren't _that_ much further south. Already winter was proving that it was going to be cold and wet, as another round of snowy flurries blew through he rode through the snow, squinting at some of the wind as he rode down into Rockport, glad, in a way, to be back. Visiting his village had not been relaxing or invigorating as it had in the past. With Kanen'tó:kon thinking of fighting, Oiá:ner worrying about his mission, there was a melancholy that clung to Connor as his mare walked slowly down the snowy main street.

"Connor! Hey Connor!"

Turning, the native saw Lance stepping out in to the snow and waving.

"Come here! I want to show you something!"

Connor smiled, easing his horse over and wrapping the reins around the hitching post. "You are quite happy today," he said, stepping into the shop.

And indeed, Lance was smiling brightly, breezing through his two apprentices to the back of his workshop. "It's a brilliant idea! Bought the designs from France and they arrived while you were away! I've tweaked it a little, but it's going to be the next big idea! I'm going to make this town rich!"

Chuckling with Lance's enthusiasm, Connor looked as Lance pulled out a strange, flat piece of wood. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the wood became a chair.

"Folding chairs!"

Connor's smile faltered, not knowing what was so money-making about this idea. "Interesting," he said, confused.

"Genius, more like! Just you wait and see!"

While Connor did not understand the point, it was good to see Lance smiling and so happy when he was often somber or brooding, or quoting Sam Adams. "I hope it does everything you wish it to," he said.

Lance thumped Connor on the back, though Connor barely twitched. "It will! And all because you took me in and gave me a fresh start! You won't regret this Connor, I promise you!"

Connor simply nodded and headed back out in the snow to head back through town and up to the manor. Riding up, he worried if he'd see the Old Man there. The last time, to Connor surprise, Achilles had not been there to greet him as he always did. Instead, he'd found him asleep in the office. Achilles was... old. He'd always been old, from when Connor first met him and seen the bent brown man who needed a cane to help him limp along, for all that he could use the cane like a weapon if called upon. But seeing Achilles bent over that desk, fast asleep, reminded Connor that Achilles was old. And getting older. Much like his Oiá:ner.

But Achilles was standing at the door as Connor rode up, scowling and grumpy like always.

It was a relief.

Stephane had been sent up to Quebec to get a clearer idea of how things were going, Duncan was in Boston watching the debates and discussions on ratifying the Articles of Confederation, and Clipper had been sent down to the Carolinas to see how the southern front of the war was going. Connor felt guilty feeling like it was a relief to have half the Assassins gone, as it left less for Connor to do amongst all the Assassins. Achilles had been pushing them hard for the entire year and with people out and researching and hunting instead of just Connor, it felt like perhaps those first three he had recruited were finally ready to be out in the field. Granted, they had been out for research before, usually at Connor's request, but for Achilles to do the assigning felt like they had finally reached where Connor was.

That wasn't to say that Achilles still wasn't pushing very hard. Connor still felt like he barely had a moment to breathe and he was wondering why Achilles was keeping him so busy.

Halfway through December, after _another_ round of snow had come through, Connor took a moment to head into town after Sunday mass to meet everyone as they came out of church. Despite being home for a few weeks now, it felt like he hadn't had any chance to see them yet. Granted, some of the villagers, like Norris or Myriam, even Godfrey or Terry, rarely went to mass. But it was still a chance to catch up and meet. And given how much Achilles kept pushing and pushing, a chance to talk with people who weren't Assassins would be refreshing.

Everyone was just getting out as Connor arrived, Warren and Prudence and some of their farmhands chatting with some of the families of some of the lumberjacks and miners. Lyle and Jamie were both in deep conversation, and, as had been the case since her injury, Big Dave was helping Ellen along. With a broken arm and broken ribs, Ellen did not move much, or even fast, and she wore a shawl to cover her bruised face. The seamstress didn't want anyone to see her so hurt, but she kept going to mass determinedly, proving that Father Timothy was indeed what the community had needed.

Connor walked over to Lyle and Jamie to join their conversation and see how things were going in town.

It didn't last long, however, when Myriam came galloping in from the woods.

"Redcoats!" she shouted. "Redcoats are coming!"

Panic very nearly set in, but Connor caught Big Dave's eye and they both knew instantly what this was all about. The private that had escaped had reported in, and now there were about to consequences. The captain who wanted to make an example of a deserter had arrived and now Dave was going to have to deal with it.

Connor quickly stood on one of the wagons. "Everyone remain calm!" he shouted, getting attention. "Do not start panicking until we have more information! Calm!"

Myriam jumped off her packhorse, running up to Connor. "It's only a couple squads. Not a large force, but they'll still outnumber us two to one."

Connor turned to the crowd. "I recommend women and children go somewhere safe! Home, back into the church, up to the manor. The rest of us stand together and see what this is about."

"We know what this is about," Dave sighed, and everyone turned to him. "It's my old captain, the bloodhound. He's here to court-martial me, then execute me."

"Then we need to get you _out of here_!" Lance shouted.

"_No_!" Dave rumbled. "I've run long enough. I can't keep running from this. I deserted. We all know it." Dave looked right up to Connor, his face pained but determined. "It's time I face it."

"We'll stand by ye," Terry replied. "They can put ye t' trial, but they _won't_ be executin' ye."

"They're about an hour away," Myriam said. "We have time."

Connor nodded. Everything was a flurry of activity after that. Godfrey, Terry, and several lumberjacks retrieved their axes, the miners fetched pickaxes, the farmhands retrieved shovels, and Myriam climbed high to the bell tower of the church and settled in with her rifle. Many of the women brought out extra blankets and coats for warmth against the cold wind as everyone waited for the squads to arrive, before returning to wherever they were hiding with their children.

Connor and Jamie flanked Big Dave, who waited in the middle of the road. Unlike many of the men who lined the street and looked grimly determined, Dave stood without any weapons, and resolute. They waited, listening only to quiet whispers and the biting wind. Dave shifted, nervous despite his decision, and Connor said nothing. Facing down problems was how he had lived his life. It was not always easy, and the results were not always pretty, but it was never a question for him.

Big Dave seemed to have spent his life running from his problems. To completely turn around and face them was an enormous effort and Connor did not know what words to offer in encouragement. Instead, he could only stand by the blacksmith's side and support him.

"I hear them coming," Dave said quietly.

"David Walston!" shouted the one redcoat on horseback. The captain no doubt. "Turn yourself in and stand before a military tribunal on charges of treason and desertion!"

Dave took a deep, heavy breath, his frame shaking, and he stepped forward. "I'm here, and I'm not running," he shouted back. "I joined to earn a living, but I won't fight my friends and neighbors. I don't want any part of this war. I'll face your tribunal."

The captain trotted forward. "Excellent," he said, with a strange glitter of hatred in his eye. "I noticed that this hovel has access to the sea. We'll have you back in London on treason soon enough."

"_London!_" several of the townsfolk shouted.

"Of course," the captain said gleefully and coldly. "You filth can't be trusted to hold a trial, you're all rebelling. You need someone to give you order and stability, and you're all too idiotic to even realize that that's what England does." The captain turned to his two beleaguered squads. "If any resist, shoot them."

Everyone frowned severely. Lance stepped forward. "We already covered this!" he shouted. "When Prescott was in charge for the Boston Massacre, he was _acquitted_! By us! Our courts here are fair and just! Dave can be tried here and get an honest trial! That's more than anything back in _London_."

The captain glared at the carpenter. "This colony really _is_ the hotbed of idiocy that started this stupid war."

"No," Godfrey said. "This is _you_ being a wanker. All o' this effort fer _one man_. Yer damned pride's gotten the best o' ye."

The captain's face turned red, then purple. "Arrest the _lot_ of them!" he shouted. "Treason against the crown!"

Needless to say, no one in the village cared for that in the slightest. As the soldiers came forward, muskets and bayonets forward, scuffles started to break out as everyone resisted the very idea of being arrested for treason for simply speaking their minds. People started to cry out as they were hurt, soldier and villager alike, and chaos started to reign, before there was a single gunshot that made everyone pause.

The captain, who had his sword buried in Big Dave's leg, was slack-jawed and wide-eyed, staring down at the blossoming blood in his chest. Jamie stood behind Dave, his gun smoking, and a cold look in his eyes. Then the New York mongrel of many heritages put his gun away and lifted his hands.

Connor straightened, putting away his _tamahac._ "Who has seniority now?" he shouted. The lobsterbacks started looking back and forth with each other, and the townsfolk started to slowly back away as they realized that things had shifted.

A lieutenant, blood dripping from his arm, stepped forward. "Suppose that's me."

"Has it been worth it?" Connor asked softly. "Separating from the main body of the army, crossing territory that is hostile, facing off with militia, and now arriving here, for one deserter?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "Nope. Never saw no reason for it neither," he replied. "But you _don't_ say no to the captain."

"And now you are captain."

The lieutenant blinked, a slow smile crossing his face. "Suppose I am at that."

"So what is your decision, Captain?" Connor asked, hand still near his _tamahac_, just in case.

"I say we found no one and returned after a scrap with militia."

Connor nodded, relaxing. "We will help you tend to your wounded."

Lyle and Jamie were very busy after that, tending to all sorts of stab wounds, bruises, and a few broken bones. Father Timothy made rounds of prayers, and a small collection tray to pay for all the extra supplies that the doctors were using up with the British, who couldn't pay for their treatments. The only death, thankfully, was of the arrogant captain. But Big Dave was not without his own sacrifice.

"You'll never walk without a limp," Lyle said tiredly. "That damn captain and his sword. I don't know how, but he hit the bone just right and it's shattered. With time off of it, it will mend enough for you to walk, but that leg will always be weak. You might always need a crutch or a cane."

But Big Dave took the news surprisingly well. "I deserted, doc," he said. "I had to pay the price for that somehow. I'm just glad it wasn't with my neck."

Lyle frowned heavily at that, but went back to working with all his patients.

Connor looked to the large blacksmith. "Will this affect your smithing?"

"Naw," Dave chuckled. "Might be a bit slower, but as long as my arms work I can still do my job." He gave another soft chuckle. "I've never been so terrified in all my life."

"Facing problems is always scary," Connor replied just as softly. "But it is a relief, is it not?"

"Yes," he replied. "But Connor, I'm sorry. For bringing this violence on the village. You were right. I can't run from problems. God only knows where Ellen got the wherewithal to face down her husband. I was shaking like a leaf the whole time." He looked away. "I'll never be as brave as that woman."

Connor blinked, uncertain what Ellen had to do with all this, but put a hand on Dave's thick shoulder. "We protect our own," he said. "Whether it's Ellen from her husband, you from an arrogant captain, or Norris from a cave-in. To be in a community, to be part of a village, is to always look out for each other and help one another, so that the community can improve and do better. You are free now. What will you do with your freedom?"

Dave chuckled more warmly. "Keep working. Helping out. Looking out for Ellen till she's healed."

"Then you are no longer _atenenyarhu_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I wish we could say it was deliberate, we like the fact that Big Dave and Ellen were introduced in the same chapter and that their character arcs came to a head in the same chapter. There's a symmetry there that we like.
> 
> Of the two, Ellen's story is more interesting. We tried to play it as straight as possible; domestic abuse is a complicated emotional knot for both parties, and however wrong the abuser is and whatever problems they have to make them abusive, they are not evil incarnate no matter how easy it is to judge it that way. Quincent has his own problems, and being drunk and emotional doesn't help. The time period views women as subhuman (there were laws preventing them from reading in some areas) and gender expectations were much more strictly defined does not help. Connor is not privy to any of this, however, and as an outsider all he can see is Ellen letting him back in. Having said that, we deliberately staged everything beforehand. Ellen stood up for herself - which is remarkable to begin with but downright amazing considering the time period she's in - she's willingly accepting the idea and the stigma of being a divorcee in order to free herself of his abuse. But she, like he, remembers the good times when things worked between them and the happy moments before it all went bad. We tried to make it as realistic as possible given that we're in a historical fantasy. Back in the day nobody would even blink that Quincent beat his wife, it would have been considered expected to keep the woman in her place. But Connor's community is of course much more progressive - ranging from abolitionists to Sons of Liberty black farm owners and even a black landlord. Oh, and now a cross dresser.
> 
> Which brings us to Dobby. We like her character, her attitude, and the backstory that was given her. We outright HATED her character design, though - because why dress like a boy and pass as a boy and still show cleavage? She isn't an Italian courtesan that had laws about what clothes they could wear, so... what? Like, seriously, it's Puritan New England, what?
> 
> Note that she is a fair bit older per her character profile so that she could be more secure in herself. She's passed all the self-questioning and agonizing over gender roles and societal expectations, and that could only have come with hard-won experience.
> 
> And then there's Big Dave. While he never really grew on us as a character the lesson he gets here is important not only for him but for the community: Connor doesn't suffer people hurting those around them. The irony of Dave being the coward and Ellen being brave was quite deliberate - it tickles us when role-reversals like that happen, and of course it wouldn't be us if we didn't grievously injure someone in order to make them learn a lesson. Although... nobody's died yet... hold that thought. Anyway, it was also nice to see Connor - so devoutly religious about the Sky Goddess (Juno) and the quest she gave him it's nice to see him use Stone Coats as a metaphor to teach a lesson. He wouldn't have been able to do that before.
> 
> Next chapter: Connor realizes why Achilles has kept him so busy. And life gets absurdly complicated.
> 
> AC Syndicate: HENRY GREEN IS ADORABLE


	21. Raké:ni

With barely any time for the town to recover after such a violent burst and send the British on their way, Achilles hobbled into Connor's room one morning.

"Yes?"

"You're needed."

Again? "Where?"

"Our contact that you made in New Orleans, they need help finding an Officer Davidson of Lord Dunmore's Ethiopian regiment. Duncan has sent word that he's found where they are, and it's up in the mountains of New York. An Assassin from New Orleans is on the way to meet you."

Connor nodded. If a brother needed help, he would always be there, as he would be for his people. He and Achilles settled around a map. "I will make camp here and scout the area. I assume that our brother is already on their way?"

"Yes," Achilles replied. "Barring weather issues, I expect the ship to arrive within a week."

"Then I shall leave immediately to start scouting."

Achilles nodded, looking old, before he looked to Connor. "Be careful, Connor."

"Of course."

Formed in 1775, Lord Dunmore, the British Governor of Virginia, offered freedom to any slave who was willing to take up arms against their American owners. Loyalist slaves were still to be slaves. But the proclamation had the desired effect as thousands upon thousands of slaves started to flee with the promise of freedom. Dunmore founded a whole regiment of blacks, called the Ethiopian Regiment, as if all slaves came from Ethiopia, and naturally all the commanders were white. Indeed, the Ethiopian Regiment had some success down south, though they were used mostly as laborers and smallpox fought the regiment even as it formed.

But Dunmore was defeated the same year at the Battle of Great Bridge, and in 1776 the regiment had been disbanded. While the British kept the promise of freedom to any slave who escaped from the Americans and many blacks were pouring into New York City to take up that offer and be relocated, fighting units were still far and few between as arming black people was considered a revolutionary idea and still frowned upon by both sides.

Connor frowned. If the Ethiopian Regiment had been disbanded, then what was this collection that he'd found deep in the mountains? He had circled their "fort", little more than logs buried into the earth as a meager defense against the wilderness more than any army, as a canon would turn the logs to splinters within one volley. These men didn't seem to have suffered from the smallpox that took out so many of the Ethiopian Regiment, and seemed hale and healthy, if somewhat underfed. They moved like a well-trained force, with squads scouting the area and patrolling, a hunting party occasionally heading out and coming back with deer or squirrels for meat. So what was their purpose here? For a regiment, it was incredibly small, barely two hundred men, and Connor could not figure out why they were out in the wilds of New York like this.

Following one scouting party, he found a small homestead of a single family that had been burnt to the frames. No doubt they had taken any and all supplies and were already on their way back to their "fort". With a heavy heart, Connor started to pull out the corpses of the family, lining them up and gently covering them so that he might bury them.

He heard her arrival before she entered the small clearing. Her feet were light and quiet, but it was clear she did not know how to walk in such deep snow.

"Connor?" she called as she came in. Her voice, like Gérald's was accented in French and Connor was grateful that she knew English. "I'm Aveline de Grandpré, your 'brother' from New Orleans."

Connor turned, and noticed that it was the woman he had noticed when meeting with Gérald. Nearly a decade older than him, but clearly accomplished in her grace and stealth. She was not the refined lady that he had seen, but instead a confident assassin.

"Yes," Connor nodded. "Achilles told me you would come." She stood in snow up to her thighs, not having proper snow shoes, and she was holding back a shiver, no doubt because the snow was soaking through her pants. "We will camp here tonight."

Aveline nodded, glancing enviously at Connor's own snow shoes, before looking to the family. "I will help you bury them."

Connor let out a soft, sad sigh. "It is too cold to bury them," he murmured. "The ground is too hard. If we can find the cellar, we will place them there."

It was grim work, and both were covered in soot by the time they unburied a bulkhead that led down to the raided cellar, and then to bring all the family members down inside with some dignity. Night was almost upon them when Connor finally set up a fire in the skeleton of the house both to get protection from the wind, but also to prevent prying eyes from seeing the flame. Aveline, in particular, would need the time to warm her wet clothes.

Connor headed out to check his snares while she changed to a fresh set of clean clothes, and when Connor came back, Aveline offered to cook.

"I will handle the food if you can provide another set of those strange, wide... things on your feet."

Connor chuckled. "Snow shoes. So that you do not sink."

"I noticed," she replied lightly.

Connor had already planned on making a set for her and had gathered proper sticks and branches to bend into the proper shape. From there it was weaving strips of leather and twine and setting other strips of leather to tie around one's feet.

"I seek a Loyalist," Aveline interrupted the quiet. "Officer Davidson, of Lord Dunmore's Ethiopian Regiment."

Connor gestured to the husk of a building they were staying in. "That regiment passed through here, or their scouting party did. But the Ethiopian Regiment has been disbanded for over a year now. I do not know what this regiment is, but they are freed slaves and they are loyalist."

Aveline's thick lips thinned. "Then this must be them."

"I know where their 'fort' lies," Connor continued weaving. "At first light, we will be on our way."

The following morning, with new snow shoes, both set off at a solid pace over the thick snow, following a game trail rather than one of the regiment's scouts, staying in the underbrush until they came to a frozen over river.

"We climb," Connor said sitting to pull off his snow shoes for the large frozen waterfall before them.

Aveline whistled. "I had no idea that so much moving water could freeze."

"Do you not have winter down in New Orleans?" Connor asked, reaching for a pine tree and rubbing his fingers in its sap.

"We have a rainy season, if that's what you mean," she replied, mimicking Connor's motions. "These trees are very different than the bayou. I assume that this sticky stuff will help the climb?"

Connor smiled.

The climb was arduous, Aveline matching Connor's foot and hand holds as he explained where ice was and how to brush off snow for a better grip in certain crevices. They reached a ledge almost a third up where they could stand comfortably, but not sit. "Now we rest," Connor said. "The rest of the climb has no such spot so we must regain our strength while we can."

Aveline nodded, barely winded, but shaking out her arms. "I think I prefer the bayou," she said lightly with a wry tone. "At least there's always something to grab. A vine, a branch, and if you fall, you merely go for a swim with some alligators. This is... quite different."

"I would not know how to handle those alligators," Connor shrugged.

Aveline laughed.

They continued the climb, agonizing and slow as it was, to the top. It was nearly mid-day and they paused to have a bite to eat.

"How much farther?" Aveline asked as she tied on her snow shoes again.

"An hour," Connor replied, crouching to the underbrush. "We must be more careful now. Though the fort is not much defense, they do have sentries."

Aveline crouched down with him, frowning. "I have been searching for years to find the Company Man," she said softly. "If I merely wait an extra hour to find him to avoid another dead end, I can wait."

They moved in silence after that, each making hand signals over anything they saw and silently moving from one bush to the next. Aveline paused, and motioned. Connor nodded. A sentry was ahead. They would need to move around him to get to the fort-

But Aveline was already rushing forward, surprising the sentry as she leapt to him, shoving him down into the thick snow and a knife appearing in her gloved hand making its way to the sentry's neck.

"Unhand me!" the black man shouted.

"One chance to keep your life," Aveline hissed, her glittering knife pressing against the man's jugular. "Where is Davidson?"

"Who?" the sentry grunted.

"Come on!' Aveline growled back. "Time's up!" Already her knife was drawing blood.

"He's in the fort!" the sentry shouted. "He's in the fort! The fort!"

Aveline was off him in a flash, standing and smiling brightly. "That was easy," she giggled. "Why is it you call yourselves loyalists again?"

Connor stepped out from the brush and stood by her side.

"Easier to be loyal in the safety of the fort," the man said backing away and holding his neck, "than out in the snow with a knife to your neck."

All Aveline's amusement disappeared, as she stared the sentry down. "Run home," she ordered. "_Now_. And don't let me see you again." Her eyes narrowed. "You won't be able to run then."

"Y-yes ma'am!"

So the sentry ran.

They waited a moment, letting the silence of the forest settle around them, before Connor decided to talk. "That was reckless," he said. "We could have avoided him all together."

"But now we have confirmation that Davidson is there," she replied. "It worked out."

"Going into a situation blind serves no purpose," Connor replied. "We hunt. And to hunt, we must know our prey. To know our prey is to observe, watch, and learn."

"And now we have confirmation that Davidson is in that fort."

"Which we already knew," Connor replied firmly. "We have combined our information networks. They work together as one. Once Achilles knew of where Davidson was, so did Gérald."

Aveline frowned, looking away. "_Désolé_," she apologized. "Trust... is not easy for me."

"It is not easy for any who do our work, for we face the white man's ability to lie."

"Not just the white man," Aveline said so softly, Connor was uncertain if he was meant to hear. So he did not respond, and instead, continued on their way.

A half hour later, they came to an old covered bridge that crossed a ravine with the frozen river down below, showing them to be higher in the mountains than when they had climbed the waterfall. Unfortunately, it seemed an earlier storm had damaged it. Updrafts from the ravine had broken apart the flooring and while it remained steady, vast gaps over open air remained. Connor was confident that he could cross the gaps but not the last one. It was too far apart. He'd have to climb to the roof and beware of ice and snow.

He glanced to Aveline. "We may have to go over the roof."

But Aveline was focused on the gaps in the floor.

"Can you get across?"

She flashed him a charming smile and took off, as fast as Connor, and at the last gap, she didn't even pause as she pulled out a long whip and used it to swing across. She turned and gave a bright smile. "You mean like that?" she called.

Connor couldn't quite hold back a chuckle, though he still thought of her as reckless. He still climbed to the roof of the covered bridge to cross, as there was no way for Aveline to give him the whip (not that he would have the skill with it) nor was there any way for her to make a bridge across the gap.

The sun was still high in the afternoon when they crested a hill and looked down to the 'fort'. "The officers," Connor explained, "are using that structure," he pointed to the only house on the interior, isolated from the rows and rows of tents that the average private was using. "I will go around and divert attention." After spending a week scouting the fort, he knew where the powder magazines were, and that would make a fine distraction.

Aveline was studying the layout, and Connor could almost see her own eagle focusing and staring, as his did. He wondered if she also had that other sight, the Eagle Vision, as Achilles had called it, to guide her eyes to what she needed to see.

"_Bien_," she said softly. "Give me ten minutes." And without even waiting for an answer, she was taking off her snow shoes and climbing the trees to get to a branch that hung over the fort.

"Reckless indeed."

Connor waited the ten minutes she asked for, then crept through the underbrush to a weakness in a set of logs that he'd noticed before and used to sneak in to get a better sense of the layout. The gunpowder was stored in a root cellar, so as to keep it dry and protected from the elements. While the only true structure was the officer's quarters, there were many bushes and trees inside the 'fort'. This made it easy for Connor to sneak through, undetected. At the cellar was a single sentry, and Connor pulled out his bow and arrow. More silent than a pistol or rifle, and just as deadly. The arrow pierced the man's heart and he didn't even have the chance to grunt. Connor rushed forward, pulled out his arrow, and dragged the man down into the cellar with him. He offered a small prayer to the man, hoping that his family was also free of slavery, before taking down a lantern and setting the cellar on fire.

Connor snuck out of the cellar and rushed as fast as he dared from the impending explosion, hoping to get back out the wall to avoid the concussive wave that was about to be unleashed inside the fort. He could only hope Aveline had enough time with Davidson to get what she wanted. He was indeed able to get outside, just as the explosion went off, throwing everything inside the fort into chaos. Earth and rocks soared high into the sky, before slamming back down to the tents and soldiers within, and Connor offered another prayer for them to the Sky Goddess. These were men who wanted freedom and had been dragged into a Templar's game. They had not deserved this, and Connor hoped that Iottsitíson forgave him for all this death.

In the confusion, he saw one man, an officer, but a black officer, leap onto a carriage and go charging out, leaving his men to suffer.

That must be the Templar, Davidson. With his snow shoes back on, Connor surged forward, hoping to catch the Templar. Aveline must have lost him.

Or she had been killed...

Either way, Connor would question that Templar and make sure the information was passed on.

To Connor's displeasure, however, a small squad had managed to form and have some semblance of order, and they saw him running away. After a musket ball flew past his shoulder, he turned to face them. In truth, it wasn't much of a squad. Only five black men, and Connor did not wish to fight them. So he did not pull out his _tamahac._ Instead, he used only his fists, disarming and choking until they were all unconscious at his feet.

The wagon would not have gotten far in the deep snow, so Davidson was still near. A sleigh would have been a better choice given the terrain, but this worked to Connor's advantage. Connor set off again to find Davidson and get the information that Aveline needed. He saw the wagon ahead and was already gaining on it when he heard a pistol shot. The barrels on the back of the wagon exploded, the man, Davidson, sent flying as the horses panicked and screamed.

Aveline dropped down from a tree, looking tired and worn, but determined. She stepped forward to the bleeding man, and Connor gave her the time with her Templar. He looked to the panicked horses that couldn't move in the thick snow with the overturned wagon behind them. Both were too badly damaged and would not survive. With a heavy sigh and a soft thanks, Connor ended the lives of the two horses.

"I had hoped it would not come to this," Aveline said softly, holding the man's dark, bloody hand. "Now, in death, eternal freedom."

"You... _mock_ me!" the Templar Davidson spat. "I _chose_ my destiny. That... is _real_ freedom. Perhaps," he grunted, "one day, you will... know it too..."

"I..." Connor watched Aveline struggle, before her eyes hardened. "Who is the Company Man?"

Davidson gave a coughing, bitter laugh. "The answer... has been in your _own_ backyard... all along... Just... open... your... eye..."

Off in the distance, a lone wolf howled, and Davidson slackened into the snow. Aveline stayed by his side, staring at him for a long time. Finally, she put his bloodied hand over his mangled chest, and gently closed his eyes.

She stood, wiped her eyes, and turned with a pained smile towards Connor.

Connor walked over, uncertain what to say. They stayed silent for a moment, before Connor turned away from the 'fort' and started to head into the woods. "I am glad you are well. When I saw Davidson leaving and no sign of you, I worried."

Aveline said nothing. Only sniffed, either from tears or the cold, Connor did not know.

"Did you find what you sought?"

"_Oui_," Aveline said. "And much that I didn't."

"Such it always is, with Templars," Connor replied, thinking of how much he had learned from Hickey, and looking back, what Pitcairn was after, as was Johnson. "Finding one Templar always reveals more than one thought. And sometimes more than one wished."

Aveline nodded. Then wiped her eyes again.

"It seemed you knew that man."

She nodded again. "I... He was a slave I helped free and escape. I was able to smuggle him to the British colonies so that he had a chance. I did not realize... I had given him to the Templars."

Connor nodded, again uncertain what to say.

"And now you know the Company Man?"

"... Regrettably."

Much like Conner would have to deal with Haytham Kenway, it seemed Aveline would need to deal with someone similar. Connor could certainly empathize.

Two days later, as they were riding through Massachusetts to return to Rockport, Aveline, who had been reticent the whole ride, turned to him. "Connor? Are you always... certain in the means and ways of the Brotherhood?" she asked.

Connor kept looking ahead, not liking how her words struck him. She was doubting the Assassins? What was she facing down in New Orleans that shook her faith in their Order so strongly? But Connor thought of Achilles, of the doubts he had of what his Mentor had done when he'd presided over the war before Ratonhnhaké:ton had even been born. Connor let out a heavy sigh.

"I... trust my own hands," he said softly. The Old Man left many questions for him, but Connor knew what was right and wrong, and to not act was to not be a person. "How can a person see brutality and not act? It is how I was raised, it is how I live and breathe. No matter what happens around me, _that_ is what I trust in."

"Of course," Aveline replied. She gave a smile, one more sincere, and they continued on. They returned to Rockport and Connor was surprised to see Warren and Prudence come running up to Aveline.

"Aveline!" Warren greeted.

"It can't be!" Prudence said, holding Hunter close. "Aveline must be a legend!"

"It seems you are well known," Connor observed.

Prudence blinked. "You mean she _is_?" She immediately hid behind her husband, completely embarrassed.

Aveline gave a warm smile. "I do not think myself well known," she said.

"Oh but you are!" Warren gushed. "I grew up in the islands, and all with connections to the slaves, knew of Aveline and her hard work to free any she can!"

Lyle stepped forward as well. "Oh yes, those I've helped have mentioned you," he said warmly. "Lady Aveline, you will always be welcome here."

"I wish I could stay," she replied. "But I am only on my way home. There is much to do."

"Oh do come visit again!" Warren said.

"Travel safely," Connor said, nodding his head.

Aveline offered a grim smile. "It's the arrival that concerns me."

Connor gave his own smile. "Then you are on the right path."

* * *

It was the last week of December when Connor and Aveline had returned to the homestead, days shy of winter. The air was still and sharp and grim. The homestead sensed it too, and went about their work with uncommon urgency, the bloodbath of Dave's confrontation making them nervous, tasting the war much closer than any of them had ever imagined. Connor wanted to help them, but more pressing matters demanded his attention. The _Atenenyarhu_ had targeted George Washington directly - and would not rest until he was dead. Connor had hoped to shield him from this knowledge, but Thomas Hickey ended any hope of staying silent. Over a year had passed since then, and still the commander did not know the danger he was in. Connor had long ago resolved to share everything he knew - of the Templars and their plots - of who he really was.

Achilles pursed his lips as they covered the same topics again, Connor trying to press the need to let the commander know, the Old Man to let ignorance remain. When Faulkner and the _Aquila_ docked from their most recent trade expedition, Aveline ready to go back to New Orleans, Achilles demanded Connor go with her as escort.

"But she is a skilled _Hirokoa_," Connor said, "She does not need the protection."

"_Non_, I don't," the woman agreed.

"Yet, all the same, you need to go," Achilles replied. "I have an assignment for you there regardless."

And then Connor thought back to all the trips he had taken, all of the assignments he had been given, all of the traveling he had done, and he realized exactly what was happening.

"This is deliberate," he said softly, eyes wide as it all continued to fall together in his head. "All this past year, you have sent me up and down the coast to keep me away from him. Away from Washington. You're trying to keep me from telling him."

And the Old Man said nothing, held his gaze evenly, and did not deny the accusation. Tension bled into the air, more and more memories flashing in Connor's mind, this one trickle of doubt now sending his thoughts through his entire childhood, wondering in what other ways the Old Man had held him back, done more than discourage him. All that negativity, all the rebuffs of his success, the constant usage of the word "child" and "boy," suddenly he realized just how cantankerous Achilles really was with training a recruit, and all he felt was anger.

Blind. Anger.

"I am leaving," he said quietly, danger in his voice.

"Do not," Achilles said, voice equally soft, equally dangerous.

"_Iá_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned on a moccasin-ed heel and left the study, pounding up the stairs and to his room. Aveline ducked out of his way, confused at how suddenly the conversation had changed, uncertain if she should step in or not. He barely even noticed her, his ears and mind were pounding with anger, the sharp sting of betrayal. Connor had looked up to the Old Man for over eight years, drank every word he ever spoke, taken his advice to heart and listened ardently, and now he knew it was all for naught. It was exactly as that first day, when they had met: Achilles had slammed the door in his face, and nothing, _nothing_ had changed since then. Now, however, now Ratonhnhaké:ton was older, wiser, and self-sufficient. He no longer _needed_ the Old Man to caution him, hold him back, slam the door in his face. Now he had the skills to do this himself. Perhaps Aveline was right, perhaps the means and ways of the Brotherhood were not as he had believed, the same way that the Templars, save Charles Lee, were not the Stone Coats that he had thought as a child. It was not the ideal he had sought. In one lightning strike of realization he understood exactly where Aveline stood, and now he, too, was there on that precipice, but unlike Aveline, he did not waiver.

If the Assassins would not help him, then he would do it himself.

He grabbed the rich, deep blue blanket, given to him by Oiá:ner when he first set out on this quest given to him by Iottsitíson, rolling it up and grabbing his saddlebags, still stuffed from his journey with Aveline. Slinging the latter over his shoulder and the former under and arm, he grabbed his bow and quiver, and his dream snare, and marched out of his room, back down the stairs, and out the door.

Achilles moved to follow, brown face hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

"Don't do this, Connor," he said, limping after him out into the snow.

No. He would not listen. Not ever again. He was too angry. "Then what would you propose we do?" he threw over his shoulder, marching to the stables. "Sit and watch while the Templars take control? We are sworn to stop them. Or have you _forgotten_?"

The Old Man was struggling to keep up, Aveline slowing to a halt at the edge of the house, unable to intrude on the brewing fight.

"Assassins are meant to be quiet," Achilles said. "Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by."

Another lecture? Connor had had enough of those. Rage pounding in his head, noise in his mind, he turned and threw out the first words that came to mind. "Who are you to lecture anyone? You locked yourself away in this crumbling heap and gave up on the Brotherhood entirely. Since the day I arrived, you've done _nothing_ but discourage me. You have spent the last year _lying_ to me to keep me from my duty. You have prevented me from going after targets and chasing the enemies of my people. And on the _rare_ occasions you've chosen to help you've done so little, you may as well have done nothing at all!"

And, for the first time since knowing the Old Man, he reacted. Color drained from his face, eyes bulging in shock before rage proportionate to that felt by Ratonhnhaké:ton filled his face. "How dare you!"

But the young native was not done yet, anger still filling his half formed words. "Then tell me," he said derisively, "On whose watch did the brotherhood falter? Whose inaction allowed the Templar Order to grow _so_ large that it now controls an entire _nation?_" He saddled his black mare, tossing the saddlebags and blanked onto her flank, leading her out of the stable, refusing to look at the source of his rage.

"If I sought to dissuade you," Achilles shouted, his voice echoing over the snow, "it was because you knew nothing! If I was reluctant to contribute, it was because you were naïve. A thousand times you would have died and taken God knows how many with you. Even now as a grown man you are still frozen as a child! Even after all of this you have yet to learn the most important lesson of all! Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is _not_ a fairy tale and there are _no_ happy endings."

Again a child! He turned cold eyes to the Old Man.

"No," he answered softly, "Not when men like you are left in charge."

Pain, raw pain, crossed the Old Man's face, a reaction Ratonhnhaké:ton had not expected, but his haze of anger prevented him from truly recognizing it. He got a foot in the stirrup and mounted, taking the reins to see that the Old Man had grabbed them himself, holding the animal in place.

"In your haste to save the world, boy - take care you don't destroy it!"

He did not even dignify that with a response, just kicked the mare and rode off, willfully ignorant of that pained look, willfully ignorant of the look on Aveline's face as he rode out. He exited the homestead at a full gallop, the horse slipping over the icy wood of the bridge and up the ridge into the forests.

It was not until the next day that the look of pain finally entered his consciousness, and as he reflected on the words he said, the accusations he made, he admitted to himself no small amount of regret. For Achilles to show any emotion on his face at all meant that he was feeling that emotion deeply, and for him to show _pain_... Ratonhnhaké:ton had been hurt, was _still_ hurting with the realization of what the old Mentor had done; the young native had lashed out in his anger, and in his desire to hurt back, he had done a great disservice to Achilles.

The Old Man _had_ helped him, had trained him, had taught him, and for him to throw it back in Achilles' face... he had been wrong. He would apologize when he returned.

But he would not return until _after_ Washington was safe. On that, he would not bend.

* * *

It was three hundred and fifty miles from the homestead to Valley Forge, the place where Washington had finally set up winter quarters. He rode through Boston and Worcester, into Connecticut and through Hartford and New Haven, following the coast to New York and its City, across New Jersey and into Pennsylvania. It took almost three weeks, snow showers and winter storms slowing his journey, but he arrived in the middle of January.

Located twenty miles northwest of Philadelphia, the encampment lay along the Schuykill River on high ground, on plateaus named Mount Joy and Mount Misery respectively, it was just far enough from the British camps to prevent surprise attacks and just close enough to fend off any enterprising redcoat from going deeper into Pennsylvania, standing between London and the Congress in York, effectively creating a standstill. The forests were thick and dark, hiding everything and providing ample sources of wood, which Connor saw was immediately being put to use in constructing log cabins to house the poor excuse of an army that the commander was in charge of.

Further south than Ratonhnhaké:ton's home, it was moderately warmer, but no less miserable for the 11,000 men ill prepared for any form of winter. Connor skulked about the camp, passing himself off as an Indian guide and getting a feel for the camp before he made contact with the commander. It had taken, they said, three days to build the first log hut, and a week for the second because the timber had to be hauled in from so far away and because they only had one axe. Easily a third of the men had no shoes, many leaving bloody footprints all over the camp, and disease was _everywhere_.

"You got your pick," one of the pickets said, shivering in only a light shirt and a scarf, "Typhoid, typhus, the pox, dysentery, pneumonia, stuff I don't even have a name for."

Hydration was the most immediate source of the sickness, the half foot of accumulated snow further north was barely an inch this far south, making it impossible to harvest the snow for water. Moreover, sanitation was a joke, Ratonhnhaké:ton and the Kanien'kehá:ka knew to relieve themselves and throw refuse away from the village, but the settlers had no concept of keeping such things away from themselves, the entire camp stank of feces and rot.

Exposure was the greatest killer, so far. Connor had his thick wool coat and blanket, moccasins for his feet and deer-hide leggings to keep him warm, he knew how to sleep under trees and in lees of stones to avoid the wind. On a ridge there was no such natural protection, and blankets were a luxury that many did not have, to say nothing of the lack of shoes, coats, stockings, anything to cover the body against the cold. The days were warm enough to melt whatever snow they received, the dampness seeping into everything, only to refreeze overnight. Bodies were sometimes left in the log cabins because there were not enough shovels to dig the graves necessary – most had been commandeered by Knox in his fevered rush to place his artillery in case of an attack by the regulars. Horses fared little better than men.

Food was very nearly nonexistent: consisting of "firecakes" which were little more than flour and water, or pepper-pot soup, simply pepper and tripe broth. The pepper did nothing to hide the taste of the rotten vegetables that were used simply because it was all that was available. Some had recently discovered that leather was edible, and were cooking what few shoes were left in water and calling it soup, anything to trick their minds into thinking they were actually eating. The only saving grace was a man affectionately called the Baker-General, who somehow managed to make a pound of fresh bread every day to be passed out to the thousands of troops.

Desertion came by the dozens, no sane man having the wherewithal to fight for liberty on an empty stomach, and many more were dying left and right. It was a mess. Only one month into winter quarters and many soldiers – if they could be called soldiers – were bone thin, ribs visible in their tatters of clothes, hallow and empty-eyed, shivering and miserable and sick.

Connor could not even fathom how the army had fallen to this state. He remembered the swell of soldiers in New York, when the Declaration of Independence had been read, the fiery spark of people coming from all over the colonies to fight at Bunker Hill two years and a half years ago. Two years of battle, two years of losses, of retreats and defeats, had boiled down to their absolute worst, and for the first time the young native wondered if they would win the war.

No, no, they had to. He was here, now, to alleviate Washington of one of his burdens, one he didn't even know abou-

How would the commander react to this news? To the knowledge that his life was forfeit by the Templars, a faceless enemy he knew nothing about in the face of the very real disaster he was currently living with every day?

The thought gave him honest pause as he moved to the only house of the camp. For a brief moment, at long last, he saw part of the argument that Achilles was making: this man had enough on his shoulders with things as they were, what would adding more do to him? For him? He stilled, indecision striking him hard, as he realized the problem that lay before him: how much could a person take? Ratonhnhaké:ton himself had been tested many times: the death of his mother, the fallout of Johnson, his time in prison, the betrayal of Achilles he still felt so keenly. The commander was now suffering far more than that: the slow inevitable decay of his army, the loss of the cause that the Colonies so passionately championed, defeat at the hands of the redcoats. How much more could he stand? How much...?

He shook his head, shocked at his indecision. He had already made his choice, when he had left the homestead three weeks ago. He would not bend now.

The home in the camp belonged to a man named Isaac Potts, who in turn rented the house out to an aunt, Mrs. Hewes. Cramped with twenty-five commanders and Washington himself, every available space was used for bedding save the kitchen and the dining room, which had become the default meeting room for all the commanders, the table covered in maps, memos, letters, books, pencils and quills.

Washington was there, talking fiercely to a messenger.

"... and I can assure those _gentlemen_ that it is a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fire side than to occupy a cold bleak hill and sleep under frost and snow without cloths or blankets; however, although they seem to have little feeling for the naked and distressed soldier, _I_ feel superabundantly for them, and from my Soul pity those miseries which it is neither in my power to relieve or prevent. Tell them _that_, word for word, and give them the petition _again_. I cannot be expected to command a naked and dying army _and_ find the resources to supply them _and_ respond to their criticism _and_ fend off the enemy all in one breath, and by the love of Providence I have to see to the welfare of my men _first_. Tell them _that_!"

The messenger scurried away, frightened by the passion of the commander, and Connor was left standing in the doorway, finally noticed.

The commander blinked, an embarrassed flush overtaking his pale features and he coughed, turning away to collect himself. "Forgive me," he said, his voice softer, more pliable. "I was not aware that another messenger was coming. What news have you?"

Connor pulled down his hood.

"Ah, Connor," Washington said, recognizing the native. "It's been a while, over a year, I believe. How are you?"

"It would appear that I fair far better than you," he said softly, wondering how to broach the topic of the Templars and how to present it. The silence drew out, Washington's face far away, before he caught himself and shook his head.

"My apologies," he said. "I've been distracted. Supply caravans meant for the camp have gone missing. I suspect treachery. A traitor named Benjamin Church, recently released from prison, has vanished as well. The two events are surely related."

Church was released? _When_? A Stone Coat loose in the Colonies, it only meant bad things, no doubt he was again under the hand of Connor's _raké:ni_, furthering the goal of destroying Washington. He cursed the Old Man all over again, for keeping him so busy as to miss this most important piece of news. He had been there for the trial, had spent the last two and a half years secure that at least _one_ _atenenyarhu_ was safely locked away. Now he was _free?_ Was_ Lee free?_

His response was immediate: "I will find Church for you."

Tired as the big man was, his eyes sharpened and he looked at Connor as he had at Trenton, with suspicion. "Why?" he asked slowly. "What reason have you to help?"

A hundred conversations flitted into Connor's head.

"_Assassins are meant to be quiet. Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by._"

"_You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent._"

"_In telling Washington, you will expose yourself in ways that you cannot yet fathom, and avail yourself of dangers you do not yet understand: political manipulation, deceit and maneuvering._"

"_Nothing good can come of you exposing yourself, nor in exposing Washington._"

"_He is safer not knowing._"

Pressure built inside him, indecision, and finally he lowered his eyes, unable to face the resolve that had crumpled inside of him so quickly, hateful of the Old Man and the words that still held such sway over him, spiteful of the fact that he understood now the weight that they carried, the experience, and unwavering knowledge that the Old Man was right, and that he had been wrong. Shame burned his face and his jaw nearly broke for the pressure he placed on it, but at last he bowed to Achilles' wisdom, and he looked up, squirming at what he was about to do.

"... Does it matter?" he asked softly, reticence threatening to overtake him.

Washington had seen the fierce internal conflict, just as Connor had seen his righteous passion, and the commander nodded slowly, forgiving the indiscretion.

"As you wish," he said softly. He turned from the table and looked out the window, towards the camps and their misery. "I... don't like staying here, in the house," he offered. "I should be out there, with the men; I should not have privileged accommodations when they are suffering so blatantly. I cannot afford to rely solely on Providence to save us from certain death. I have petitioned the Congress repeatedly to supply the army themselves, but until they listen I must do it myself, and the very last thing we need are the supplies General Greene has been foraging to disappear. We've received reports of trouble along the southern road. Might be Church is responsible, though that is more guess than any form of certainty. I suggest you begin your search there. If Church is not responsible, then you may follow your own leads."

"... You are generous, Commander," Connor said softly. "I will do as you ask. If there is nothing I can find, I will bring game for you; meat and skins will serve your army well."

Washington turned, surprised by the gesture. "You are far more generous than I," he said softly.

"The people have chosen you to lead the fight against the redcoats. Your men must be fed and clothed for them to succeed. You may be safe from Charles Lee, but Church is still out there, and I will relieve you of that burden."

He missed the slight frown on Washington's face, turning to begin his search.

Connor scouted the southern roads meticulously, looking for signs of travel and tracing them back and forth across the forests, determining which were Patriot and which were harmless travelers. He also ventured into the woods and felled several deer, the largest animals he could expect his mare and himself to carry, skinning and harvesting everything he could to bring back to camp. The men cheered at the bounty, and Washington smiled softly at the good deed, walking amongst the men often and offering what words he could. Connor joined him on one such walk, watching as the Commander offered apology after apology that the supplies were taking so long, ensuring as best he could that they were on their way before trudging back to the house and looking out the window at the starving camp, sighing. Clouds were massing to the west, the sure sign of another snowstorm that would drop enough snow to make life even more miserable, but not enough to be useful.

"I have failed them, Connor," he said softly, eyes forlorn. "Only look around to know my words are true. This revolution once seemed a righteous thing, our cause pure and just. We asked only for what all people deserved: liberty, equality, respect. The Empire should have embraced us... instead they pushed for war – a war, it seems, they are destined to win. I dared to dream of better things. Behold what is has wrought."

Connor was aghast to hear such words from the commander of the army. He tried to offer solace.

"Such dark thoughts will cripple a man, if he lets it," he said softly. "Look again. Out there stand men and women determined to be free. Such a struggle is rarely easy, and never without sacrifice. I have asked myself a thousand times if I would not be happier amongst my people, living a quieter, simpler life. But if I abandoned my cause – if you abandon yours, Commander – who would take our places? And what would become of the people who rely upon us?"

… They were alike, Connor and Washington. They both sought, desperately, to protect their people; they were both of strong ideals and moral fiber; they were both outnumbered and outgunned. Connor could not help but feel kindred with this large white man, so determined to share in his men's plight, fighting not only the British regulars but also Congress and nature itself. Perhaps Ratonhnhaké:ton should make offerings to the _Jogah_, the little earth spirits who protected the land, let the _gahonga_ and the _gandayah_ know that this army meant no disrespect to the land. He would need to find tobacco for that. At least then nature would not be so harsh on him.

"It isn't right that they should suffer when I do not," Washington said suddenly. "If the ground is to be their mattress, so too will it be mine."

"And what of the coming storm?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Washington offered a pained smile. "If I can't stand against some snow, then there really is no hope for us."

Connor nodded. "You are a good man. The people were right to choose you instead of Charles Lee."

"Again you say his name," Washington said. "Why?"

"Because he is _Atenenyarhu_," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "In your language he is a Stone Coat. He is evil."

Washington frowned. "Charles has brought energy and positivity to the army before his capture; he did not like being passed over for me, true, but his loyalty to the cause is unshakable. The man is many things, evil is not one of them."

"So you say," Connor said, "But I know differently."

"And what could you possibly know?" Washington asked, concerned.

"... Enough," he replied, not wanting to expose his friend to the truth of the Templars.

The next day Connor came across an abandoned church, half built and empty of pews and pulpit. Far more significant, though, there were signs of a camp. This far off the road only lead to one conclusion, and he entered the dilapidated building cautiously, his eagle awake for any signs of danger. Inside was empty, drifts of snow from the open windows dusting the floorboards, and inside was a man, tall and in cloak and tricorn hat. Iron grey hair was pulled into a tail, hands clasped firmly at his back, and even without seeing his face Connor knew who he was looking at.

Haytham Kenway.

He froze, anxiety bubbling up in his chest just as it had in Bridewell Prison. He had shied away from thoughts of his father for so long, had avoided it so much, that now that he was confronted with meeting him he did not know what to do. Should he make himself known? Sneak away and follow? Kill him? … Ask him why he left? Ask him how he became a Templar? Ask him why he favored _Charles Lee_? His duty as an _Hirokoa_ and his curiosity as a son warred with each other, trying to resolve which course of action would be best. Should he feel anger? He did not, but he did feel anticipation, curiosity, anxiety of course, ambivalence. He wanted this meeting to go _right_, but he never considered just what "right" actually was, and now that it was here, unavoidable, he wished he had more time to actually think. He was just deciding to back out, skulk away and hide in the trees, follow his _raké:ni_ and watch to make his decision, when Haytham Kenway turned around.

Eyes widened slightly, a sign of surprise, and a long, painful pause drew out as both men stared at each other, deciding what to do.

"Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said started to say, his mind searching for something, anything to say. Did Haytham even know he had a son...?

His half-formed thought shook the older man out of his stare, and Haytham's face immediately closed down to a blank look. "Connor," he replied.

Nothing after that.

Haytham would not make the first move, but then he had been caught flatfooted, and perhaps he did not know what to say any more than Ratonhnhaké:ton. The young native was still struggling to decide how to start, and the silence drew on to almost painful lengths, but at last Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he could not just _ask_ the questions he wanted most, he could not guarantee any of the answers. He needed a measure of the man before him, first and foremost. He wanted to know more _about_ Haytham before he asked about the past. More, still, there was the fact that – like it or not – he was a Templar, an _Atenenyarhu_. Whatever Achilles thought of him, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not discount the Old Man's advice out of hand, and he understood that any contact he made would be hazardous at best and deadly at worst. He had to play his hand very,_ very_ carefully.

Caution, first and foremost. Why he was here was obvious, Benjamin Church, but perhaps that was the best way to start.

"Come to check up on Church?" he asked, sandy tenor soft, as neutral as he could make it. Haytham, grey haired, sunken eyes, began to circle the young native warily before he gave a dark scoff.

"Benjamin Church is no _brother_ of mine," he hissed, vicious snarl on his lips strong.

"Then you are the one stealing supplies?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "Seeking to aid your British brothers?" If his _raké:ni_ was responsible for the condition of Washington's army... he didn't know what to do if that was the case. His responsibility was to... but could he do it?

Antagonism oozed off of Haytham's response, filled with contempt and derision. He threw a dark look at Ratonhnhaké:ton and sneered. "I expected naïveté," he said. "But this...! Even Shay knew better than you," he accused before pausing, taking a breath, pursing his lips before he looked at Connor again, eyes hard and unyielding. "That idiot who calls himself king is little more than a spoiled dog, whiny and in constant need of affection and attention."

The contempt for London and the king Ratonhnhaké:ton had not expected. If not for the crown but why...?

"The Templars do not fight for the crown," he said in the tone of explaining something to a simpleton. "We seek the same as you, boy! Freedom. Justice. Independence."

_That_ was untrue. Achilles had told him of this many times, of the allure of the Templar philosophy, of the inherent flaw that existed in their shouts of freedom and justice.

"But...?" he prompted.

"Hmmm?" the white man countered, tone accusatory. "But what?"

"Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey," Connor listed. He practiced stillness, afraid that any wrong move would set off a powder keg. How could his_ raké:ni_ justify their deeds? How could he justify Johnson eating the land, Pitcairn seeking to eat Sam Adams and John Hancock and stop the revolution before it had even started, how could he justify murdering Washington – a man chosen by the will of thirteen colonies – if he purported to support freedom? Independence? The Templars were not simple, their motives always subtle, but _how_ could Haytham Kenway justify any of _that_? "They sought to steal land. To sack towns. To _murder_ George Washington. For one who claims to fight for freedom you do nothing but oppress it."

"Of all the twisted...!" Haytham gave a long, put-upon sigh, so like the Old Man Connor straightened and paid attention more out of habit than anything else. "Johnson sought to own the land that we might keep it safe," he explained, still circling his son. His face was a mess of frustration and anger, impatience. "Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy - which you cocked up _thoroughly_ enough to start a god-damned _war_!" he shouted, leaning in and gesturing violently. He took another breath to control himself. "And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader. He's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part. The man's _wracked_ with uncertainty and insecurity. Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We'd all be better off without him."

Those last words dug in the most. Connor admired the Commander of the Patriot Army, so like the native himself in his set of challenges. He was honorable, thoughtful, cut from the same cloth as Ratonhnhaké:ton, and to hear Haytham label Washington felt like he was labeling _Ratonhnhaké:ton_ in such a way. His jaw tightened, toes curling in his moccasins as a chill breeze swept through the windowless church. The moment drew out, neither man backing down, circling.

Ratonhnhaké:ton had _no idea_ what to do. Haytham's words had echoed the words of his targets, protecting the Kanien'kehá:ka, parlay; and it was his _father_, he could not bring himself to believe the man was an irredeemable _Atenenyarhu_, a Stone Coat that ate people. He had learned since Hickey's assassination, learned that everyone had the potential to be _atenenyarhu_, and that not all _atenenyarhu_ were irredeemable, sans Charles Lee. He was never comfortable with thinking of his _raké:ni_ in such black and white terms, and he realized belatedly that he had never decided _how_ to think of his _raké:ni_. It left him with no foot to stand on, no basis to judge the actions of this man, and without a starting point he had no preparation on how to deal with him.

He had not expected Haytham Kenway to be so... irritable – that much he felt comfortable thinking. The man he had seen in prison was perfectly controlled, letting nothing show, staring at nothing and no one, above even his compatriots. This man before him was not nearly so perfect, frustrated and impatient, traits that echoed in Ratonhnhaké:ton much more than he wanted to admit. There was common ground there and... and...

And he did not want to hurt him.

Not until he _knew_ him. Or at least more _about_ him.

"Look," Haytham said after yet another sigh, "_much_ as I'd love to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he's stolen, I want him punished. Our interests are aligned."

… He was done in after that.

He shifted his stance, changing his posture, still stiff but more open. He kept his back straight however, and his heart perfectly closed off. He was not the naïve child of his youth, and he did not disregard Achilles' words out of hand as the Old Man thought. No, Ratonhnhaké:ton would not give this man anything. He would have to _earn_ his trust.

"What do you propose?" he asked softly.

"A truce," Haytham replied. Another pause drew out, something crossing his face. "Perhaps..." he started, an awkward sound exiting his throat, "perhaps some time together might do us good." He crossed his arms behind his back, form straightening, looking more as he had in Bridewell. "You are my son, after all," he said smoothly, "and might still be saved from your ignorance."

Of all the...!

Haytham saw the indignation of Ratonhnhaké:ton's face, offering an oily smirk and extending a hidden blade brazenly. How did he have...? "I can kill you now, if you'd prefer...?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips, saying nothing. Doing nothing.

The blade was sheathed, face smug. "Excellent! Shall we be off?"

"Do you even know where Benjamin Church has gone?" the young native asked.

Another pause, this one decidedly more awkward. "I'm afraid not. I'd hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. It seems I'm too late. They've come and cleared the place out."

Poorly prepared if that was what he came here for. Even Ratonhnhaké:ton knew some tracking would be necessary, had planned on it, even. "I may be able to track him," he said softly, looking out to the dusting of snow.

Outside, the previous night's snow squall had left snow on little more than grassy surfaces – winter was the best time to hunt for the clarity of the tracks but there was not enough snow in all of Pennsylvania right now to meet Connor's needs. That did not mean the tracking was impossible, only less easy. The wheel ruts of a wagon, very heavy, were still visible in the half-frozen earth, and pointed further south, away from the encampment. The trails here were mostly game trails, a few hunting paths, narrow and nearly impassable for a wagon. Twice he came across lost cargo: rations, clothing, the things so desperately needed by the Patriots. Anger bubbled up inside Ratonhnhaké:ton. To deliberately inflict such cruelty...! Benjamin Church should have died long, _long_ ago, back in Boston, when he was easy to find and easier to kill, before the Revolution had started, before things had become... so complicated. His anger at the Old Man burned in him again, hating that he had been held back for so long that now, when Washington needed supplies the most, _Benjamin Church_ was inflicting suffering worse than Bridewell Prison. That man was _Atenenyarhu_, he was eating the army in his mad quest for...

What did Church want from this? If he was no longer a Templar, what did he hope to gain from this?

He turned to Haytham.

"Why has he done this?" he asked softly, careful to keep his voice from carrying.

"Because he has only ever had _one_ priority," Haytham said, heedless of the volume of his voice. "That man had no sense of principle, no dedication to the goals of our Order."

"Your goal to eat the world?"

"_Eat_ the...? Just _what_ has Davenport been telling you all these years?" Haytham said, irritation coloring every feature. "No! As I told you before: freedom, stability, liberty. Everything and everyone in their proper place, happy. Benjamin never subscribed to any of that, his only goal was the furtherance of his own wealth. Money was the god he worshiped and he was an ardent believer in it. He stayed with the Order not because of moral duty but because we could _pay_ him. The man will pay _dearly_ for the betrayal he had wrought, mark my words."

They traveled for two hours, following the tracks, covering four or five miles. Haytham was silent in the sense that he did not speak, but he was the _noisiest_ companion Connor had ever travelled with – and that included city dwellers like Duncan and Dobby and Jamie. Even they knew where to watch their feet, and in the span of an hour knew what to look for on a forest floor that would announce their movements. At first he thought that his father did not know, but when asked to be silent the man simply glared, and then deliberately stepped on a twig, snapping it and startling a deer and her fawn. It was not until later, when the first obvious sign of the wagon was made clear that he slowed, eyes at last on the ground and mindful of his steps.

The heavy wagon was to the side of the trail, wagon wheel broken, and one miserable teamster trying to do repairs in the chilled wind.

"Just my luck," the man was muttering. "Going to freeze to death if I don't get this fixed..."

Satisfied he had found what he wanted, he left the tree he was hiding behind and walked up to the teamster. He worried his hands slightly, well aware that his father was watching; that made him nervous for some reason, though he tried to control it. Diplomacy first. He leaned forward. "Are you Ben Church's man?" he asked politely.

The driver whipped around, eyes twice the normal size, before stumbling away and running off.

"Well played," Haytham said lightly, voice filled once more with contempt. The derision pricked at his emotions, and Connor gave chase, wishing to correct the mistake that Haytham perceived. He drew his bow as he went, grabbing and arrow and taking quick aim before skidding to a halt, taking a breath, and firing. The arrow sailed through the man's leg, sending him careening down to the ground before struggling to get up. Ratonhnhaké:ton ambled over, grabbing the man and hoisting him up, slamming him against a tree.

"It was not wise to run," he said, his sandy tenor soft and dangerous.

"W-what do you want?" the teamster demanded, shaking visibly, pale even through the rosy pallor of the cold air. Connor could just feel the man's heartbeat under the layers of fabric, thudding frantically in fear. Haytham walked up to the pair calmly, just outside Connor's peripheral vision. He ignored the man in favor of the interrogation.

"Where is Benjamin Church?" he asked simply.

"I don't know!" he cried out, Scottish drawl thickening in emotion, voice high pitched and desperate. "We was riding for a camp 'round the bend just north of here. It's where we normally unload the cargo. Maybe you'll find him th-"

The teamster's face exploded in blood and brain matter, a cacophonous sound ringing in Connor's ears at point-blank range, making him duck instinctively as the smell of death suddenly filled the air. His body trembled with so close a call, and he looked to his right to see the smoking gun, Haytham calmly lowering it and putting it away as if he had not just committed heartless murder.

"Enough of that," he said coldly.

"You did not have to kill him!" Connor shouted, shocked that his father had behaved so, shocked that life was to be so meaningless to him. His ear was still ringing, he could smell the gunpowder and his fingers prickled with the sense of life leaving them. A man was dead!

Haytham did not even dignify his horror with an explanation. "Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter," he said instead, dismissively waving his hand. "Go catch up with the rest of Church's men. Infiltrate that camp of theirs and see what you can discover."

What?

… _What_?

Just like that this man was giving orders? To his _son_? How did that make sense? What of the caring, the nurturing? _He had just murdered a man in cold blood,_ and now he just doled out orders without even pausing at the life he had taken? What... what...

"What about you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. What was so important that Haytham would just hand out an objective and leave the son he didn't trust to do it? What would make him so demanding after cold-blooded murder? What-

Haytham turned incredulous eyes to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Never you mind," he scolded. "Just do as I ask." And with a dismissive glare he turned and crouched over the body, beginning to search the man's pockets.

Connor stayed in place. What should he do? He was already planning on going to the rendezvous, had never questioned that as his objective, but he did not want to leave his father alone with the man he had just murdered. He had never seen an _atenenyarhu_ eat a person, and however much it was a metaphor as Achilles said, he did not trust his father to be alone with the body because... he just didn't want to leave.

Haytham turned after a moment, looking up. "Well?" he demanded.

Ruffled, Connor knelt down and put his hand on the corpse's forehead, offering a few last words in his native tongue before closing the one eye that was left. Palm covered in blood, he grabbed a fist of almost frozen dirt to clean it and leveled a baleful glare at his _raké:ni_. _He_ at least gave rights to the dead.

Haytham just turned and went back to looting the corpse.

That man...!

Clenching his jaw and forcing himself to walk away, he took up the trail again, trying very hard not to think about what his father might be doing to the body he had so savagely murdered, trying to focus on Benjamin Church and the damage he had wrought, trying to keep his mind from exploding like black powder for all the directions his mind was spinning. He would need a _month _to sort through the myriad of emotions he was feeling after this!

It was twenty minutes later that he found the stolen caravan, taking a rest. He hid behind the shelf of a large boulder, seeing three wagons, each with a pair of teamsters, and four guards, making for ten men. Too many to assault, and he would have to be careful in how he approached the wagons. He took to the trees, nimbly darting up an overturned pine and finding a small but navigable path amongst the pines and oaks and hickory trees. He paused when he was at the second wagon and waited. All the guards were at the head of the column, no one guarded the back. If he timed it just right...

"Was a good haul today," the teamster under him said. The other man on the wagon held a musket in his lap, head down and shivering in the cool temperatures. "Saw a bit of gunpowder in those crates. We'll get extra for that."

"Aye. Church'll be pleased and we'll be rich."

"I almost feel sorry for the Yanks, shiverin' and starvin' out there. It's a hard way to go."

The man with the musket scoffed. "All they need to do is raise the white flag."

The teamster snorted. "They shoulda done that a long time ago. All this fighting serves no purpose. The Crown's sure to win in the end. To waste all these lives chasing a fool notion... Breaks my heart, it does."

"Alright," said a new voice, "looks to be in order. Let's go."

The reins were flicked and the three wagons started up again. The third held a collection of hay, easily four stacks high for horses, and as it passed under Connor he lightly fell into its depths, burrowing quickly between two bales and surrounded by the dry scent. It was perhaps a half hour later that they arrived at the camp, further down the Schuykill River, where a boat was beached, waiting for cargo. An eleventh man stopped all three wagons, musket in hand as well.

"Go and see the foreman," he said. "There's another run planned for tonight."

That made twelve. Numbers were adding up and Connor carefully slipped out of the wagon, landing in a thick overgrowth of piney bushes, crouching down and looking around. It was midafternoon now, the light would not last much longer, making the shadows deeper and easier to hide. Excellent. He picked his way through the camp, ducking from one wagon to the next, avoiding the guards and at one point crawling under the horses to reach the center of the camp. A man in a coat clearly thicker than the others was waiting.

"About time you showed up! Listen here. Boss wants us to try something new tonight. A raid. No more convoys. We're to steal from the Yank camp itself."

"Valley Forge?"

"That's right," the foreman said.

"You sure about this?"

"It's not my business to be sure or not sure! I just do as Church asks. If you're so concerned, take it up with him."

"Is he here?"

An easy laugh. " 'Course not. Hiding in New York the last I heard, trying to keep a low profile - what on account of him not wanting to go back to jail and all."

"Alright. I'm in."

" 'Course you are."

Connor smiled from his hiding spot in the bushes. He knew where to start his hunt now, New York. No doubt hiding from his _raké:ni_ as well as the authorities. Dobby was the best connected, he could go back to Rockport and grab her, find Church and end his cruelty to the Patriot camp. First, he needed to recapture this supply caravan. The teamsters could be used to take the three wagons of goods back to the ridge, the trick was tricking the other nine men into either leaving or convincing them to look the other way. Ratonhnhaké:ton would not fare well in that, half-Kanien'kehá:ka as he was, but now that he was working with his _raké:ni_ the clearly English gentleman could talk to them and-

"Look what we found!" one of the guards said brightly.

"He was creepin' round the camp all suspicious-like."

"Must be a Yank spy!"

-Or he could be a noisy _idiot_ and be caught by the enemy guard. How did that man survive this long making so much noise in the woods? How did his _ista_ ever put up with him?

He flushed as he realized his thoughts and shrank deeper into the bush, rushing to compartmentalize his feelings and get control of himself before his irritation colored his thoughts negatively. He watched instead as the foremen stepped over, looking at Haytham in the firelight and giving a large, toothless grin.

"No," he said to the guard. "He's something else. Something special." He crouched down. "Isn't that right, _Haytham_? Church told me _all_ about you."

Haytham held himself firm, unyielding, staring at the foreman with cold eyes. "Then you should know better than this," he supplied softly, voice dangerous.

The foreman's reply was a vicious punch to the face, Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath catching as he saw harm being done to his father. He practiced stillness, thinking of wood as he saw his _raké:ni_ do the same, unbending to the violence that was done to him while the foreman gloried in his victory. "You're not really in a position to be makin' threats are ya?"

Haytham's eyes caught the firelight, the only viable source of illumination in the afternoon sky, and for a brief second their eyes locked, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that the older man had seen him. His gaze slid back to the abusive foreman, and he spat out a mouthful of blood and gave a cocky, "Not yet," in response.

Another fist bludgeoned his face, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized belatedly what that gaze was supposed to signify. He crept around the bush, disappearing into the shadows and backing around the tent and boat, ducking over the rudder, careful not to touch the freezing water, and silently padded over to the two men. So long as there were two and more weren't called, the light was just right, quiet, _quiet_, a little closer and grasp!

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrapped his arm around the foreman, yanking back and away from his _raké:ni_; it was all the prompting Haytham needed as the older man easily broke the grip of his captor and shoved his hidden blade into the man's neck, killing him brutally. Eventually Ratonhnhaké:ton's target fell silent, and he slowly lowered him near the fire, posing him to look like he was asleep. Haytham left his corpse where it had fallen.

"Well," he said calmly, "Once you've dealt with these louts, meet me in New York."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. What?

"What? You mean to just leave? Now?"

Haytham was perfectly poised, arms locked behind his back, blood dribbling down his chin. "If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries then we've really no business working together," he said simply.

And he turned and left.

What...!

Unbelievable!

Without Haytham he had no way of returning the caravan unless he skulked around the camp and neutralized every guard in the entire group: nine men, with muskets and varying levels of awareness, and then collecting the teamsters and getting them to... It would take all night!

It was while he was doing his grizzly work that he realized that his father had just tested him. Instead of simply _talking_ to his son, Haytham Kenway had decided it would be better to set Ratonhnhaké:ton off alone to infiltrate the camp, allow himself to be captured, and then see what his son would do. Was he so mistrusting? Did he truly think so little of the young native? Even Ratonhnhaké:ton, distrustful as he was of Haytham, would not set such a task of his father; he did not want to know what his father could _do_, he wanted to know who he _was:_ what he thought; why he had become a Templar; what had led him away from the life of his _rakshótha_ Edward; he wanted to know more about his _akshótha_, what was her name; he wanted to know _him_, Haytham Kenway.

It was three in the morning the next day, the twenty-fourth, when he finally had subdued and tied up all of the guards, ten hours of tedious work. He was exhausted and frustrated and confused as he gathered up the teamsters and began the three hour ride back to Valley Forge. The sun was just cresting the treetops when they at last arrived, the numb tatters of pickets too frozen to do little more than smile as they saw the caravan arrive. Word passed back, and Washington came out personally to receive the supplies.

"I see you've been busy," he said slowly, walking up to the native as he dismounted.

"There was a camp, further south on the river, that the supplies were being taken to," Connor said by way of explanation. "Several men are tied up there, waiting for arrest."

"General Greene," Washington said, "Kindly see to it."

"Sir, yes, _sir_."

"You have done us a great service, sir," the commander said.

"No," Connor replied. "I have done what is necessary. If I did not do this, then who?" He looked at the commander, hoping his gaze held the meaning that he wanted, willing confidence into the worn general. Connor understood the man's uncertainty, he himself felt it most keenly after meeting his father, but he could not be swayed from his duty, and neither could the commander. It was the will of Iottsitíson the Sky Goddess that had given him his task, he could not fail her; similarly the representation of the collective will of thirteen colonies, now states of a new country, that had given Washington his task, and he could not fail _them_. Both of them protected nations, and their responsibility bade them to persevere through the doubt, through the uncertainty, through to the end of the journey, when they would be rewarded with the safety of their people.

Washington saw something of what Connor put into his gaze, and he nodded softly, a strand of his powdered hair blowing in the chill breeze.

That afternoon, pickets sent word of an arrival, and Washington, Connor at his side, saw five horses bringing up men in enviously thick coats, the degenerate soldiers coming up to meet them in their threadbare rags and bare feet.

Sam Adams looked about, eyes wide in horror, as he dismounted and lead the five representatives of the Continental Congress up to the Potts homestead, where Commander Washington stood in the frigid air, breath visible.

"Gentlemen," he said, voice carefully neutral, "I welcome you to the Continental Army."

"Commander," Sam Adams said quickly, face turning warm and friendly in an instant, the horror hiding away. "It would seem that we have much to discuss."

"So it would seem."

And then, off in the distance,

"_And there was Cap'n Washington,_

_"And gentle folks about him;_

_"They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud,_

_"He will not ride without'em!_

_"Oh, Yankee Doodle keep it up,_

_"Yankee Doodle dandy,_

_"Mind the music and the step_

_"And with the girls be handy!"_

Washington held himself perfectly still, saying nothing as Sam Adams and the other delegates listened to the lyrics as the story continued, always with the reprieve of Yankee Doodle, before the Massachusetts representative gave a soft, knowing smile. "I suppose it's true," the politician said lightly, "You will not ride without them. You certainly argue for their welfare with fervor."

"Would you do any less?" the commander asked softly, still clearly embarrassed to realize the troops had taken the derisive Yankee Doodle song the regulars had created and turned it around to sing praises about _him_.

"No," Sam said gently. "As I said, we have much to discuss."

"Not the least of which," said one representative, "is how you've allowed the army to get to this state. It's no wonder you've suffered loss after loss."

Washington colored, not because of the cold, and leveled a cold look to the delegate. "I am more than aware of the criticisms publicized by the so-called Conway Cabal. I have always had my share of critics," he said, voice rising in passion, "and to them I have only one thing to say: Whenever the public gets dissatisfied with my service, I shall quit the helm and retire to a private life."

The delegate, whoever it was, was gobsmacked, and said nothing. Sam Adams, however, gave a sly grin and turned to the man. "Let any man try to replace him _now_, sir," he said lightly. He turned back to Washington. "Come, let us take a walk, I am certain there are many specific details you would like to show us personally. And before you make your proposals, Commander, I wish you to know I have every intention of carrying out every single one of them, if it's in my power to do so."

The five delegates moved about the camp, with Washington and his trail of staff, the large man outlining all of his struggles in gut-wrenching detail, sparing nothing, outlining the deaths and the conditions, expressing how much of his time was spent funding the army instead of leading it, calling out certain soldiers to tell their stories, ask their names and why they joined, why they still fought. Sam drank it all in, always one for theatre, and Washington proved to be an excellent stage manager, articulating his needs in undeniable detail. The other delegates, even the one nay-sayer, were all agape at what they saw, and nodded at the suggestions the commander offered them. Connor watched from a distance for a time, content to see Sam Adams in his element. One of Washington's staff broke off, dressed in evocatively fine clothes, powdered wig, and bright pink cheeks.

"_Monsieur,_" he said smoothly, bowing with grace and elegance. "I must offer my t'anks for your bringing ze lost supplies when you did. If not, I am uncertain ze commander would have been able to face ze Congress."

"I see," Connor said softly. "You are...?"

"Ah, _désolé, Monsieur,_ I t'ought you knew. I am Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, Marquis de Lafayette. You Colonists, zough, you cannot remember such a long name. Everyone 'ere calls me Lafayette."

Connor admitted to himself he was grateful for such a short name. He would never understand European naming conventions, the names of his own people were much easier to understand. "I come from France to 'elp you fight your revolution. I 'ave been 'ere six months, now, and have learned much from your commander, I am his _aide-de-camp_. I fought in Brandywine and in Gloucester, and now 'ave a division to command. You are Indian, _non_? Are you Oneida?"

"No," Connor said with some surprise. "I am Kanien'kehá:ka, your people call us Mohawks. The Oneida are our younger brothers, as are the Cayuga; we and the Onodaga and the Senaca and the Tuscarora make up the Haudenosaunee, the Iroquois." This Frenchman knew of the People of Standing Stone?

"Yes!" Lafayette said, "Zey said that. You must forgive me, your names are foreign to me. What are you called?"

"I am Ratonhnhaké:ton," the young native replied, "But your people call me Connor. How do you know of the Oneida?"

"I recruited them," Lafayette said brightly, heedless of the prickle of anxiety that swelled in Connor's chest. His worst fear-! "I was sent by the Congress to invade Canada. I did not trust ze orders, zere were not enough men in Albany, and I returned, but we spoke with many Oneida, and zey agreed to 'elp us fight for freedom. Zey even gave me a name, zis I can pronounce: _Kayewla_. I am told it means Fearsome Horseman, is that true?"

"You... you did not recruit other tribes?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, struggling to keep his voice neutral. "No Kanien'kehá:ka? No Mohawk?"

"_Non_," Lafayette said easily. "We did not speak to many – what was your word? Tribes, _non_. Ze one was enough. We 'ave only just arrived back, and now zat the Congress is 'ere, I 'ave much to say on zeir plans to invade _le Canada_. _Idiotie, maudits idiotie_."

But Connor's mind was on other things, anxiety bleeding into fear that his people were being drawn into the war. Other members of the Haudenosaunee, they could join if they so choose, but it was different to hear it in Kanatahséton and to realize that there were tribes _here_, suffering in _Valley Forge_. Members of his own nation, so interspersed on the peaks he did not even realize it. He would have to ask for them, talk to them, learn what the other Haudenosaunee felt, their decision regarding the war. If his village agreed to fight...!

But no, he fought so they did not have to. He had suffered his trials so that they would not have to. He bloodied his hands so that they would not have to. He confronted his father... he shied away from the thought, looking up to Lafayette, still speaking, heedless of the internal struggle Ratonhnhaké:ton was facing.

"... Lord knows my journey was far from certain. Ze trials we suffered getting here were strange and many. I dressed as a woman, Connor, to evade British spies. Did you know zat?"

… What?

All thoughts derailed.

… What?

The native shook his head. "I did not. As a... woman... you say?"

"It is ze truth. King George had already stopped our crossing once in Bordeaux, t'reatening to seize my newly purchased ship, La Victoire, and arrest me. But I was born stubborn and such a warning could not dissuade me. So we rode for Spain and bought passage aboard a ship there. George's spies had followed us every step of ze way. Disguise was ze only remaining option... _mon dieu_. Anyway, I did not want ze ship to dock, so I bought all of the cargo and told ze _captain_ to stop for nothing and no one. I arrived in Georgetown – South Carolina, I t'ink – in June."

Wait. He _bought_ a _ship_, and then when that didn't work he _bought_ an entire _cargo_ in order to get here? Numbers flew through Connor's head, the expenses the _Aquila_ earned and spent on her various trade expeditions, and his mind staggered at the money required, and Lafayette casually talks about _buying entire ships_ like it was a common everyday occurrence. How much money did he _have_? It was only after he wrapped his head around _that_ that the detail of dressing as a woman filtered at last into his mind. The initial picture in his mind faded slightly, as the weight of circumstances became more obvious, and he realized how clever Lafayette truly was to disguise himself that way. Women were not valued here as they were in the Haudenosaunee, few men indeed would bare the perceived indignity of becoming female. But, then there were women like Dobby, and Connor smiled at the thought of her hearing such a story.

"No man can doubt your commitment," he said agreeably, "and you are invaluable to the cause. You did what you needed to do. I am certain I would have done the same."

"But of course you would!" Lafayette said brightly. "I expect nothing less! Of you or anyone else 'ere. Your people are a marvel, a true marvel..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, where to start. Er, small stuff first: Aveline. She's not a particularly talkative person, and at this point in her development she's going through a lot of internal struggle that prevents her from really talking about what's bothering her. Connor is in a similar state, he started questioning Achilles as a leader last chapter, and it came to a head here at least as he realized what Achilles has been doing (and we have been doing) to kill time between New York and Valley Forge - keeping him away from Washington.
> 
> We envisioned Connor initially as a beserker, and you can see signs of it in the fic - most notably when he first meets Achilles and fights the burglers, but you also see it here. His anger is so strong and his pain so great he did what any other family does: hit where it hurts. And unlike someone like Ezio or Altaïr, Connor does not hold onto his anger, and felt regret almost immediately. There's a difference between feeling right and feeling regret, and media tends to put the two hand and hand when it's not always the case.
> 
> Also, Lafayette. If you haven't, read his bio on wikipedia. Seriously, just read it. The more research we did the more we just kept saying "This kid...!" He has moxy! Like all the other characters in the game, we wish we could have spent more time with him, but we tried to inject as much as we could. And of course Connor wouldn't even blink at dressing as a woman and instead balk at being rich enough to BUY SHIPS.
> 
> Also, Valley Forge - every word written is true and documented, it really was that deplorable. And Washington's passionate speech to the messanger is an actual word-for-word quote. Five delegates did come visit the encampment, but we didn't learn who it was so we defaulted to throwing Sam Adams in the mix - Connor needs a familiar face at this point, and we got to talk briefly about how people tried to oust Washington and replace him with somebody - anybody - else.
> 
> But really, REALLY, this chapter is about Haytham.
> 
> Our interpretation of Haytham is thus: he grew up a Templar with Assassin ideals placed in him by Eddie Kenway. He starts off the game as principled, dedicated, (an -ist, like we said previously), and genuinely with the best intentions. Assassins wiki and Mr. Bowden's books try to articulate that he has doubts about the Order - but he still pushes through. Then Mr. Bowden talks about finding his sister in Istanbul as part of the Sultan's harem, he learns that his mentor is the man that killed his father, and he nearly dies from wounds as the closest thing to a best friend, Holden, kills himself because of what happens to him.
> 
> In short, Haytham Kenway is emotionally damaged goods. He already had an unforgiving brutality about him - this can be seen in some of his memories in Rogue and it is compounded to what we see in AC3. He protects himself from being hurt again by holding everyone at a distance emotionally, and that means EVERYONE. His sister, his son, everyone. And it's about then that he gives up on the world. This is the Haytham that Connor meets. I feel we need to say this because there are so many Haytham fans out there, and we just want his character understood before anyone starts wielding pitchforks.
> 
> This is compounded by the fact that the fic is told from Connor's POV, and he doesn't know any of this. There's also the fact that Connor, up until this point, has physically shied away from any kind of thought about his father - sometimes literally squirming in his seat or leaving a room because he doesn't want to think about his father, and that has cost him because now all he can do is REACT to his father, and Haytham is very good at pushing buttons.
> 
> Er, in other words, the next few chapters are going to be an emotional roller coaster.
> 
> Next chapter: A shamelessly gratuitous conversation about Templar and Assassin philosophies.
> 
> AC Syndicate: WE BEAT THE GAME! HUZZAH! Most fun playing since Brotherhood...


	22. Death of a Turncoat

It was a five day ride, just over a hundred miles, from Pennsylvania to New York.

When he reached Trenton he sent a letter north to the homestead, asking if he could have the _Aquila_ in New York. He wasn't sure if Achilles would even reply, let alone give the assistance he asked, but over the course of his ride he had decided that he wanted someone with him when he rejoined with his father.

New York itself was still suffering, even after a year, no one had cleared away the rubble of the Great Fire, the regulars unwilling to invest in fixing the damage until the war was decided. A quick ride up to Bellevue told Connor that the pox was not as virulent as it was the previous year, and better contained. The scars still remained, and he touched his necklace for strength. He had tried to collect his thoughts during the ride, to pinpoint what he felt and why, mentally prepare himself for meeting his father again.

Though it grated on his nerves deeply, he could understand why Haytham would test him. It would be foolish not to, the older man was a Templar, he an _Hirokoa_. Assuming he felt no connection to Connor, he would want as much of an assessment of the native's abilities before plotting his destruction. On a strategic level it held weight, but Ratonhnhaké:ton felt hurt that his _raké:ni_ had no feelings for him if that was the case. _He_ had so many feelings he didn't know how to sort them. The only one he could positively put a name to was curiosity. He knew very little about his father, Achilles' reticence holding to almost everything, and he wanted to know more about how the older man had become a Templar, how he had come to the Colonies, how he had... No, he wanted to know _why_ he had destroyed the _Hirokoa_, wanted to know what had happened that had hurt Achilles so badly as to make the Old Man so discouraging. There was so much he wanted to know he could hardly contain it.

… But he was not a fool either; Haytham Kenway was a _Templar_, and could not just be _trusted_. That was why he wanted the _Aquila_, he wanted Faulkner, gruff but always straight talking, to give Connor a center, a place to feel grounded, as he was certain his views on his father would change drastically as they continued to work together.

Once he arrived at New York, he tapped a few of Dobby's friends, asking around and learning that many supplies were being housed in a warehouse on the waterfront. Washington had been losing supplies for the month that he had been bivouacked, the perishables might be rotten by now, but the blankets, clothes, and shoes, as well as the arms and powder were likely not, and Connor wanted to return them if he could.

On a tiny peninsula of the island, the "waterfront" was nearly the entire perimeter of the city but the most important parts were on the East Side, where the ferries operated. Regulars patrolled everywhere, happy in their Loyalist city and their winter quarters, and the native kept his hood very low, drawing his scarf up even in the mild weather, hiding his skin color as he could. His bow he kept in his lodgings, looking more like a frontiersman than a native. He had four or five good choices for warehouses that stored the stolen supplies, and for now that was all he needed. He had found the perfect perch to watch them, and watch for the _Aquila_ to come into port as well. Now all he needed was his _raké:ni_. Where was he?

It was the second week of February, after sunset, when he landed in a tight roll in an alley, exiting out onto the street, when he heard a cultured London accent.

"Evening Connor," Haytham said. "I see you made it here in one piece."

The arrogance in his voice prickled along Ratonhnhaké:ton's heartstrings, and he could not contain a snort. Why did his father make him so _frustrated?_ So _angry?_

"Recovered from your beating, then?" the native asked, glancing at the healing lip that had been split.

The retort caused a minor thinning of the lips but little more. Haytham had made his dig and Ratonhnhaké:ton had given an adequate counter; this meant that insults were no longer necessary. He hoped.

Haytham moved on.

"Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise."

"Good," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered. "I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible."

"Of course," Haytham said in a deceptively polite voice. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause." He turned without even so much as a backwards glance. "Come along then. Follow me."

Another order?! The gaul!

Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, working his jaw, as Haytham walked proudly through the streets, not a care in the world. His level of self-confidence was palpable, and that made others give him berth, parting and giving him an easy path down the sidewalk. Everyone gave the man a glance, his presence strong, and Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't quite sure (_again_) how he was supposed to react to him. Their previous encounter played over in his mind several times, the tests, the cold blooded murder, but always his mind wandered back to that first moment. When the older man's eyes widened and then closed off. He never charged, never tried to attack. Because he was caught? Ratonhnhaké:ton could hardly resolve that in his head; the man was _too_ confident. But at the same time he jumped immediately to an alliance. Why?

"Tell me something," he asked softly as they turned a corner.

"Hmm?"

"You have the opportunity to kill me, but you have not. Why?"

Haytham gave a quick glance to his son, a flick of the eyes and little else. "Curiosity," he said simply. "Any other questions?"

And wasn't _that_ a loaded question. Ratonhnhaké:ton had more questions than he knew what to do with. He felt like it would take days to ask them all. A long pause drew out as he tried to find the best one to start with, one that would not shut Haytham down, fill him with contempt or dismissal. He was a little afraid, still, to ask about his _ista_, or Achilles, but perhaps...

"What is it the Templars truly seek?"

The question made Haytham stop walking, halfway down an alley, and turn to face his son.

"Order," he said, something in his voice giving the word meaning, weight. "Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was offended. "So order cannot be held with freedom?"

"Yes," Haytham replied without blinking an eye. "Humanity is a disaster; even after centuries of war and violence and persecution, they do not learn. They are mad with wrath, avarice, envy, lust, pride, gluttony, laziness. The Seven Deadly Sins. The Bible had that much right, at least. Mankind cannot live without hurting each other, and so the Templars seek to remove those sources of pain. If man is fed and clothed, entertained and happy, then they do not care that they are in a cage. Like dogs, they need only be trained and then a New World will be born, and it will have Order, Purpose, Direction. Freedom must be stamped out, else those deadly sins resurface and destroy the world. The Assassins tout it on their sleeves like champions of a Holy War, happy to see the world burn. Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal, that of peace."

"Freedom _is_ peace," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted.

"Oh, no," Haytham replied, shaking his head. "It's an invitation to _chaos_. You are happy to see men fighting and killing each other, championing the four horsemen and watching and laughing as madness overtakes the earth. Look at the moments in history when the Assassins had a strong foothold in the world: Ezio Auditore prevented the Borgia from uniting all of Italy, stopping their constant warring, prevented the French from swooping in and instilling Order. Yusuf Tazim facilitated the rise to power of Suleiman the Magnificent – oh, so magnificent that he strangled all remaining members of his family and conquering entire swaths of Europe and Asia in a sea of blood. Just what are you expecting with all your talk of freedom? It is only freedom _to_; freedom to kill, freedom to drink, freedom to conquer, freedom to do whatever you please. Order, however, Order is the freedom _from _all these things. Even now, the 'freedom' you think you profess is little more than chaos. Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout. All in the name of liberty. But it is just noise."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "It is _learning_. _Hirokoa_ wait for the people to _learn_, to rise above the sins you have listed, to realize that laws arise from their own conscience. You talk of war, but I have seen my own people take war and turn it into a game you call _lacrosse_, for the express purpose of lowering casualties. I have seen six nations come together and discuss laws and work together to create harmony. The _Haudenosaunee_ are the very thing that the _Hirokoa_ idealize. I have seen people correct the wrongs of the world: a man who brings freedom to slaves, women who will not let themselves be degraded, a man who faced the demons he ran from, a woman who took her daughter and started a new life for herself, a man who doctors the spirit instead of preaching damnation; I have seen all of these things, all the result of the freedom you hold in such contempt. If these people can learn the truth of the world, then others can as well, and _that_ is what _Hirokoa_ wait for. Nothing is perfect on the first try, no child can become a master in one attempt, humanity cannot overcome its challenges in one generation. What you see as centuries of war is centuries of learning, of trying to be better, of rising above the sins that you so loath."

Haytham scoffed. "Your naïveté is staggering, I don't know what that old spade even sees in you."

"Do not call him that!"

"Shay could tell you the truth," Haytham said, ignoring Ratonhnhaké:ton's correction. "He saw firsthand that the Assassins are not nearly so perfect as you make them out to be. And Achilles? He has earned every derogative pejorative in the world for the damage he has caused. He is no victim, but a perpetrator, the blood on his hands is awesome, and you would say different if you know what I do. What Shay does."

"And who is Shay that you use him as a crutch to defend your argument?"

"Ask your precious _spade_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton forced himself to practice stillness, angered by his _raké:ni's_ words. Arguing about the Old Man would be futile, he tried a different track.

"And what of Lee?" he asked. What of his orders to destroy Kanatahséton? Of eating his mother?

"What of him?" Haytham demanded. "He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it. _He_ could win this little war – that _you_ started, I might add – and he could bring Order to these colonies that pretend to be states. You think this war is about freedom, taxation without representation, pronouncements from a king without the consent of the people, all the fiery rhetoric of that radical Samuel Adams, but the truth is far simpler. The Colonists here couldn't handle mastering their own destinies if they tried; even now they've thrown their trust to absolute strangers: Jefferson, Henry, that idiot Washington. Virginians are fools based on the men they have voted for. And Washington is the greatest fool of all, a man destined for middle management who has just enough skills in politics to get himself in over his head. Look at Valley Forge, those men are no army, and look at his long string of failures. Charles is the better choice by far."

"It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, hackles raised and struggling to practice stillness. Haytham, whether he knew it or not (and he suspected strongly that the man _did_) was insulting everything that the young native held dear: freedom, Sam Adams, the struggle of the Americans, Achilles, _Washington_. Anger was bleeding through his control, he was riled and he was letting Haytham know it. Words fell out of his mouth. "The people have made their choice – and it was Washington."

"The people chose nothing," Haytham hissed, his own controlled form breaking. "It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves. They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit _them_. Do you think a _single_ one of them cares about the people who elected them to be representatives? Do you think _any_ of those men care one lick about the slaves? Women? Do you honestly believe that they are thinking about _anything_ other than their imminent capture by the Crown? About being hung for _treason_? All that oratory, back and forth, progressive and conservative, is _only_ to save their own _necks_ from the gallows! Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it _true_." Fire was in his eyes, passion that Ratonhnhaké:ton was not expecting coloring his cheeks. "The only difference, Connor – the _only_ difference between myself and those you aid – is that I do not _feign affection_."

The Templar grandmaster turned in a huff and exited the alleyway, powering through the crowds, heedless of who he shoved aside. Ratonhnhaké:ton was hard pressed to keep up, half jogging after him, offended and uncertain and frustrated and confused. There was a kernel of truth in Haytham's words: the Congress _did_ convene in private, not _all_ of the men cared for the input of their constituents. Even Sam Adams had an air of dishonesty, was politically motivated and shameless in how he pursued his goals. And Washington _was_ suffering a string of losses, his uncertainty hurting his ability to make decisions.

But that was learning. True learning, Achilles said, was always painful, and some people needed to walk through fire in order to learn their lessons. Entire communities, colonies, nations, would logically suffer much more pain. Could the pain be avoided? Could Haytham's pronouncements end it? Yes, but what would the people learn? What would Connor have learned? His abuse in Bridewell had been the second worst thing he had ever endured, but that did not mean he did not gain something for it, that he did not learn from it. Freedom was... freedom facilitated learning. It allowed a person to choose to be better, allowed a person to choose right from wrong.

Washington was making mistakes, but he was _learning_, the Continental Army was _learning_, even _Congress_ was _learning_, and they would continue to push themselves to struggle and make the "more perfect union" that Sam Adams and the others wanted so badly. What his father was suggesting was...

He shook his head. They could not afford to think about this now; Church and the missing arms came first.

But still, he wanted to know more.

Philosophy was not an option after that, and a dozen possible questions entered his mind, but at last he settled on one more, a different track.

"Must be strange for you," he said, keeping his voice soft, neutral, wary of the hissing they had done minutes before, "discovering my existence as you have."

Another flick of the eyes, a glance too quick to categorize.

"I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me," Haytham said casually. Blood and fire and smoke filled Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, memories he relived in his nightmares flooding his brain as he remembered the fire, trying to get to her, trying to save her.

"_Help us! My ista is still inside! I need help!_"

"_It's going to be fine. Once I get there everything will be fine!_"

"_No, my son. You must leave. Now._"

"_Iá. Not without you._"

"_It's too late for that. You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must be brave._"

"_Iá_! _Stop! Let me go! Let me save her!_"

"_I love you..._"

He remembered the _atenenyarhu_, their contempt before they ate the village. And he remembered the night he learned who had made the decision to create that tragedy. Curiosity that had been following him for weeks burned away in an explosion of anger. He stared at nothing, long since stopped walking, struggling to control the anxiety, no, the _rage_ that was threatening to consume him.

"I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together," Haytham was saying.

Stayed together? _Stayed together_? _Why didn't he stay_? _Why did he leave_? She _might be alive_ if he had only _stayed_ and turned away from the_ Atenenyarhu!_

And then, without a care in the world, "How is she, by the way?"

His response was instantaneous. Quiet. Dangerous. "Dead," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, throwing a hateful glare at the source of his worst pain. "Murdered."

A blink of surprise. Shock. "What?" Haytham said, his voice colored. He looked down, a corner of his hat hiding his aged face; for a moment his entire frame sagged. Then he pulled himself together. "I am sorry to hear that," he said softly, politely.

… What? _What?_

That was it?! Sorry? After _murdering_ his _mother_ all he could say was _sorry_?!

"Oh," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, struggling to practice stillness, _furious,_ "you're sorry? I found _Ista_ burning alive. Her face was covered in blood, bone was sticking out of her arm." He watched as Haytham's face lost color, finding some kind of black satisfaction as seeing the man react so to the ugliest details of his memory. It was painful, physically painful, to recount the tragedy, but he did it in the hopes of making his _father_ feel even a _fraction_ of the agony he lived with every day of his life. He wanted that man to _hurt_ as he had been hurt. "The longhouse was in flames, she was trapped under a canoe. I was _six years old_; I could not lift it. But I tried, I tried with everything that I was, and I will _never_ forget her face as she sent me away. She sacrificed her life that I might live. The fire was started by _you!_" Haytham took a step back, eyes widening enough to be noticed. "Charles Lee is responsible for her death by _your_ order. All of the _atenenyarhu_ were there, Warraghiyagey, Hickey, Church, _Charles Lee_. You wanted something, some _thing_ so badly you had no qualms about bloodying your hands to get it. Your _Atenenyarhu _ate my village and my _ista. You_ caused it. _All_ of it. And you're _sorry_?"

"That's impossible," Haytham said, shaking his head. "I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact – I told them to give up the search for the Precursor Site, after Shay told us what those sites did I wrote every Rite in the world, telling them the dangers of looking for more. We were to focus on more practical pursuits..."

There was pain on the older man's face, raw and honest in a way that he had yet to be with Ratonhnhaké:ton. The dark satisfaction of the young native's rage subsided, and in its wake he felt hollow, tired. Speaking of the fire had burned him out and he did not want to hear his _raké:ni's_ excuses.

"It does not matter," he said, voice low. "It is done and I am all out of forgiveness."

He would never forgive Charles Lee.

He would never forgive Haytham Kenway, either.

He understood that now. Curious as he was about his father, as much as he wanted a relationship with him, he could not forgive what was done to his _ista_. It would be the one irreconcilable difference between them; Haytham Kenway did not value life. Ratonhnhaké:ton _did_. Sorry... of all the terrible things to say...

"You might be surprised to know," Haytham said after a very long pause, "That we share more in common than I fear either of us initially thought."

"And what does that mean?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, turning slightly. He did not want to talk anymore, he was emotionally exhausted; he wanted only to raid the warehouse, deal with Church, and return the supplies. He needed time to sort out his feelings, and he could not do that with his _raké:ni_ here.

"I was ten years old when my father died," Haytham said, looking away. "Mercenaries attacked the house. Jenny was kidnapped, stolen away in the night. Father tried to save her. They killed him before my very eyes."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stilled, surprised to hear the end of Edward Kenway. The _Hirokoa_ never knew what happened to him...

"I killed my first man, that night, and spent the rest of my days searching for my sister. I found her some years ago, a concubine of the Ottoman Emperor, robbed of everything that made her... Well, it hardly matters now." He looked at Ratonhnhaké:ton, face once more closed off. "The irony does not go unnoticed. Me, son of an Assassin, raised by a Templar; and you, son of a Templar and raised as an Assassin."

"And what does it mean?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

"That the world is madness, and we must ensure Order lest we go mad ourselves. Come, we've wasted enough time."

They were a ten minute walk to the warehouse, Connor struggling to process everything he had learned and sort out his feelings at the same time, trying to rearrange his thoughts to prepare himself for the mission he had. Haytham required no such time, he was collected the moment he started walking again, everything locked away as if it had never existed in the first place. Connor loathed and admired the trait in the same breath, hating that the older man would turn off his emotions so easily and admiring that he could compartmentalize for an assignment so quickly. He hadn't decided on which emotion to settle one before Haytham held up a hand.

"Hold a moment," he said, ducking to the corner of a building. Connor followed, frowning as he followed his father's gaze. "Church, you clever bastard," he muttered.

"What is it?"

"I was hoping I could wave you past the guards, but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know," Haytham explained. He hummed, low and in his throat, thinking. Connor did the same, considering possible options. Glancing out, he saw that both men wore the same kind of coat, dark grey and open to the February cold, boots were cheap leather, knee high, and of course tricorn hats. Two men left the gate, both in similar dress. Uniform? Then it would be easy to-

"Well I should be able to pass without arousing suspicion," Haytham said, he threw a glance a Connor. "But you..." he left the sentence hanging, gesturing to the deerskin leggings and white coat. With a shrug of his shoulders he started to move out to the gate.

Wait... was Haytham just going to leave him? _Again?_

A hand jerked out, grabbing the older man, offense tightening his grip. Haytham gave a condescending, questioning glare.

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We do this together or not at all."

"Then what do _you_ propose?"

"I will find a guard who is off duty and take his uniform." It was the most obvious thing in the world, that Haytham did not think of it...

"Very well," he replied dismissively. "I will wait here then."

…?

… Not even a "be careful?"

"Of course you will," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his tone sarcastic to hide his hurt.

"Oh I'm sorry," Haytham retorted, sarcasm even stronger. "Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?"

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, irritated. "I expect you to act like a father. But you would seem to know nothing about that. Perhaps I should not be surprised."

He left before hearing more derision, his chest burning with a myriad of negative emotions. Why did Haytham trigger such angry outbursts? He was usually calm, collected, focused. Why did Haytham so easily brush all of that away?

… Because he was his _raké:ni_. No matter what else Ratonhnhaké:ton thought of him, that man was his _raké:ni_, a man who was supposed to be in his life, be with _ista_ and help raise him. But instead he left, and even now Ratonhnhaké:ton could not understand _why_. As a child, he had not thought much of it. As a pupil under Achilles, he had thought _Ista_ had rejected the Templar. Now, seeing the man's dismissive attitude, his contempt, the young native wondered if the older man had left because of... him. He never did learn how Haytham had discovered Connor's existence, perhaps he had always known, and simply chosen never to take part in the native's life. Perhaps he hated Connor from the start, and it was not just because he was an _Hirokoa_. The thought caused his chest to tighten.

He shook his head. Where did such thoughts come from? Why was he thinking them? It shouldn't matter!

Growling, he eyed the two men he had seen leave the warehouse. They went their separate ways, Connor following the bigger man. It would be a tight fit, but he was close enough in size. The man annoyingly kept to the main roads, lost in the thick evening crowds, before stepping up a short series of steps to a brownstone and entering.

Waiting five minutes, Connor cracked his knuckles and walked up the seven steps. He knocked politely, planting his feet and preparing for anything.

"Yeah, wot is-"

One swift uppercut was all it took, and in the evening light nobody saw the violence, and Connor made sure the fall angled into the house instead of out in the street. The coat was snug on the shoulders but good enough. The shoes were are too tight, but the hat was a perfect fit. Putting his _wampum_ on his arms under his shirt to hide them, he took a chance and left the feathers in his hair, hoping no one would see them in the evening light. They were from the eagle he had visited before the Spirit Journey, he did not want to tuck them under something, he had already compromised with the giant wing feathers decorating his _wampum_.

Stuffing his feet in the boots, he walked up and down the hall of the house until he felt he could walk and run as necessary. He would pay for it the next day, but for now it would have to do. Nodding, he backtracked to the corner.

Haytham stood and gave a long, appraising gaze. Without asking permission he stepped into Ratonhnhaké:ton's personal space, pulling at a collar and adjusting lapels and pulling at his hat. He was not expecting the intimacy of the contact, and Ratonhnhaké:ton held himself perfectly still, uncertain what to do, cursing himself that his emotions were threatening to overrun him again.

"That should suffice," Haytham said after a pause. "Follow me."

They finally entered the wide boulevard and moved to the brewery. Connor noted the water was directly behind the warehouse, and guards were stationed at every corner under lamplight. Haytham gave no such glance, simply breezed up to the main doors, confident in every stride and fully expecting to get what he wanted.

"Hold strangers! You tread on private property. What business have you here?"

Haytham answered smoothly, "The Father of Understanding guides us."

The guard at the door narrowed his gaze. "You, I recognize," the man said. "Not the savage."

And then, contrary to every thought the young native had been having up to this point, Haytham said,

"He is my son."

The words were quiet, heavy and heartfelt, so unlike what Ratonhnhaké:ton had experienced to this point he turned to look at the older man, unable to completely hide his surprise. Was that true emotion he had just heard? Or a ploy? Something in between? What... how...

The guard gave a lecherous, vile sneer. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?" he said in lewd tones. He gave a series of measured knocks, and the door opened. "Off you go, then."

Connor leveled a quiet glare at the guard, silently promising that he would return to _deal with him_. The guard didn't even blink an eye, oblivious of the threat Connor had just delivered.

Some men were content to hate.

He closed his eyes, practicing stillness. He would have to let it go. Not everyone wanted to learn.

Inside the warehouse was dark, moonlight only just giving enough light to see by. It was terrible hunting conditions, and Connor asked the eagle that was his spirit to guide his eyes once more. Haytham strode into the empty chamber, only partly filled with crates, packages, barrels. Wouldn't there be more if he were stealing Patriot supplies? Something was off somehow...

"Benjamin Church," Haytham said, striding up to a man in a powdered wig and a brown coat. "You stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to _death_."

The man turned around, but it was _not_ Church, someone much younger, thinner; he frantically looked up to the shadows. "Now!" he shouted.

And, from the shadows, a dozen men with muskets came out, aimed at the two men.

Connor froze, holding himself perfectly still, eyes darting everywhere to assess the new threat. A dozen men plus the fake, a dozen muskets, men waiting all night for a hair trigger. Connor was fast but not _that_ fast, distraction would be his only option. A glance up saw open rafters from above, that would be perfect... but what about his _raké:ni_? Haytham did not even tense with surprise, only gave a cursory glance at the men around him before leveling a cold gaze at the fake.

"You're too late," the man said with a sneer, secure in his victory. "Church and the cargo are long gone. And I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow."

"Neither will you," Haytham said with cool promise.

The fake snorted. "We've chosen to stand with the victor, Kenway. It's Britain who'll win this war! You always did prefer principle to profit. Perhaps that's why your little kingdom's started to crumble. It was a nice dream you had, Kenway – but a dream is all it ever was."

Haytham sneered at the contempt. "Oh, how I'll enjoy making you pay for your betrayal," he said in a clam, disconcerting voice. "Did Church pay you well? Were you rewarded handsomely? And what good will your gold do you? Is it magic gold, you think? Like the one they spun the fleece from? Do you think it will shield you from my wrath? You others," he said, jutting his chin around to the muskets, "You'll die quickly, but _you_," he leveled an icy glare at the fake, "_You_ are going to tell me everything you know. It won't be pleasant, not for you, but I'll have my pound of flesh for this."

And, heedless of the dozen muskets aimed at him, Haytham reached for his coat pocket. Someone fired, the shot going wide, and all Connor could do was _move_, dropping a smoke bomb at his feet and tossing a rope dart up to the rafters, climbing up in less than fifteen seconds. Several shots were fired, an uneven volley, but the smoke affected the aim, and by the time Ratonhnhaké:ton was ready he saw that Haytham was unharmed, two smoking guns in his hands that were quickly dropped as a sword was drawn and a formal stance was taken. Connor drew his own two flint locks, taking careful aim, remembering what Achilles and later Clipper hat taught him. The first shot was perfect, in the shoulder, and the other landed in the stomach, bringing four of the dozen down, only now it was closer to eight because Haytham had batted away the muskets and taken down two more. Connor appreciated the technical proficiency from above before taking his rope dart and snaring two men, leaning back and flinging off the rafters. The two men were jerked off their feet, and while Connor did not have enough weight to lift them into the air their shoulders were now dislocated, bloody messes. He landed lightly on his feet, half of the opposing force incapacitated, and drew his _tamahac._ Six on two were still not great odds, but the morale of a paid man was very different from the morale of a principled one, let alone two. Connor focused on one giant brute of a man first, wielding a heavy _tamahac_ of his own and taking a hefty swing. His form was excellent, but the swing was slow and Connor ducked under it easily, slipping behind to the exposed back and giving two quick chops to the shoulder, breaking the blade and blood spurting everywhere. After that was a man who finally managed to reload his musket, Connor was inside the reaction radius before he could fire, shouldering him in the chest into a massive wooden barrel the size of four men, knocking the wind out of him. The third realized the danger, the dim light showing his face was pale. "L-Look at the half-breed fight!" he stuttered. "Like some feral dog..." It was the guard from outside, and Connor knocked the musket away like it was a twig, kicking the man viciously between the legs before taking his _tamahac_ and swinging at the hips, breaking a bone and letting the man fall. Three down, so three were left unless Haytham...

Three corpses lay on the floor of the warehouse, fatal blows to all of them. Where Connor had maimed and crippled, Haytham had simply killed. Did the man not realize that these were not spawns of Hahgwehdaetgah? He considered commenting, but he saw the fake waffling on the floor, trying to get away on legs that no longer worked for the fear he felt.

Connor leaned down, pressing a hand onto the terrified man's shoulder. He kept his voice soft. Low. Menacing.

"Where is Church?" he asked.

The impostor was near tears for the fear he felt. "I'll tell you!" he said, shuddering under the young native's touch. "Anything you want. Only promise that you'll let me live."

He gave a glance to his father, the older man making a small gesture of ascent. Nodding, he hoisted the man up to his feet, the fellow staggering slightly before finally managing to stand under his own power. He looked fearfully between the two men, but Connor kept his voice calm, reassuring. "You have my word," he promised.

The fake gave a long, terrified glance at Haytham and the threats the other man had made, but he found trust for Ratonhnhaké:ton's face and quickly divulged everything. "He left yesterday for Martinique. Took passage on a trading sloop called the _Welcome_. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the Patriots. That's all I know! I swear!"

Connor nodded, but Haytham, who had slowly circled around back, made a sudden motion, and the sickly, wet sound of a hidden blade sinking into a man's back was heard. Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes widened in horror, as did the impostor's, and he let out a gurgly, "... you promised..."

"And he kept his word," Haytham replied calmly. Coldly. "I never made such a promise, and I warned you that you would suffer. Enjoy bleeding out." He turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Let's go."

"What?" the young native demanded. "You would let him suffer?"

"Yes," Haytham said, cutting him off. "He betrayed the Order. He deserves no less."

"Have you no heart?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, kneeling down and moving to do something, anything, to ease the fake's suffering. The trust was broken, however, and the man jerked from the touch, tears rolling down his eyes as he slowly died. "_Iá_," he said in his native language, "You will be carried to a better place than this. Iottsitíson will guide you." He extended his hidden blade and granted the mercy, quiet settling over the warehouse. He stood in anger. "You did _not_ have to do that," he hissed.

"Are _you_, of all people, going to preach to _me_ about the morality of _death_?" Haytham queried, tone tired and irritated. "Isn't your life's profession that of _assassination_?"

"You cannot speak of that which you know nothing," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "_I_ at least understand the weight of the death I carry, the burden I bare. How many have you killed simply because it was easier? Because it was-"

The eagle of his spirit shrieked in his head, and his eyes snapped to the man he had winded against the barrel, now sitting up and taking aim with his musket. The barrel was aimed at his father, at this close range it was sure to hit, and the older man's back was to the danger. There was a split second of thought, of what would happen if he just... but instead he grabbed Haytham's arm and dragged him down, the sound of the musket echoing over the empty warehouse.

Haytham was furious, face red with emotion as he stood and grabbed a fallen musket from the bodies that surrounded them, firing himself and hitting the man in the stomach. "Filthy rat," he muttered, moving forward and ramming the bayonet into the man's chest to emphasize the point. "You should know better than to attack your _masters_."

Then, as if he had not just savagely killed a _second_ man on top of the slaughter of the brawl, he turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Church has at least a day on us... We must move quickly if we're to catch him."

So many things were firing in Ratonhnhaké:ton's head he wasn't sure he could speak. The brutality... the savagery... He shook his head, trying to put it away. "I have a ship we can use," he said gratingly, trying to overcome his feelings. "Meet me on the pier when you're ready."

He marched off, getting away from the cruelty, trying to find some place he could calm down. He powered out of the warehouse, backtracking to where he had left his clothes, prying the ill fitted leather boots off, anything to keep his body moving. Stillness would not come to him, and he sought to wear himself out. It was well past midnight, and by the time he was done running over rooftops and had climbed to a weather vane in exhaustion, he saw the sun begin her rise, pinking the clouds to the east and giving him a glorious sunrise in the cold February air. Only then did his mind at last settle, and he tried to think.

Curiosity. Confusion. Anger. Betrayal. Frustration. Similarity. These were only some of the emotions he could identify churning in his chest, and he knew there were more underneath, things he could not or would not name. It was the last one that bothered him the most, and when his eagle drew his eyes to the sleek lines of the _Aquila_, he was quietly relieved to see something so familiar.

* * *

By midmorning the ship had weighed anchor, and Connor was at the dock in anticipation, already thinking about Faulkner, of sharing the things he had learned, experienced. Anticipation replaced his anxiety, and the inherent safety of the _Aquila_ made him sigh in relief so strong he nearly forgot that there would be a passenger on this voyage.

Haytham stepped up to his shoulder, eyeing the blue and white ship, face closed off and lips turned into a faint frown of disapproval. Tension rippled through Ratonhnhaké:ton, dozens of new memories flitting through his mind's eye, and he reached for the stillness he had just achieved, hoping it would last.

A boat finally reached the dock, two of the crew already waving in greeting.

"Long time no see, captain!"

"Hello," Connor said softly, stepping in and taking an oar. "I do not mean to be rude but we are in a hurry, would it be all right to go immediately back to the ship?"

"'Course, captain! Been docked for almost a month, were happy to get yer letter we were."

Haytham sat at the stern of the boat, arms crossed as he looked out at the men. "Shall we?" he asked impatiently.

Both crew members gave curious gazes, but Connor did not want to even _try_ and explain the complicated series of events that had led to this, and instead took his oar and they all began rowing. Haytham made a noise of distaste.

"I thought you said this was _your_ ship, Connor. What are you, the cabin boy?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, working his jaw and keeping the rhythm. The others saw and kept carefully quiet, eyeing the new arrival warily, carefully.

"Well, captain!" Faulkner said when they made it to the _Aquila_, "It's good to see you! The boys have been asking where you'd got to and I was hard pressed to give an answer after the way you—shiver my timbers! What are _you_ doing here?"

The older man gave little more than a glance at Faulkner, instead casting his gaze to the deck and the crew, eyes narrow and calculating, before turning back to Connor. "I suppose it will have to do," he said, once again dismissive. "I certainly hope she's fast, for all the time we've lost on this little endeavor. Get her moving, Connor, while I secure my quarters."

And without so much as a backwards glance he breezed below deck as if he owned the ship.

Faulkner was quick to grab the young native. "Of all the damned fool idiotic things! What is that Jonah albatross doing _here_? On _my_ ship?"

Connor was hard pressed to answer on deck, with the eyes of the crew watching and he uncertain how to explain himself. He offered instead, "I will tell you later. For now, we are setting sail for Martinique. Benjamin Church is going there, with supplies stolen from the Continental Army, Washington is desperate for whatever we can find."

"But _why_ is...!" Faulkner paused in his oncoming tirade, seeing Connor's face, and his own expression crumpling. "Aye, aye, captain," he said. He turned and started shouting orders, and Connor moved to his own quarters, putting his small pack away, his bow and quiver, and pulling out the blue coat the crew had given him, putting it on. He kept his feet bare for the pain of the boots the previous night, and walked out on deck and took the helm. Haytham joined him shortly thereafter, and the rest of the afternoon was spent sailing the Hudson River, out to the Lower Bay and then to the Atlantic. Haytham said nothing, just watched the crew as they worked, Faulkner giving orders here and there but letting the men generally manage themselves. He disappeared at the supper hour, and did not appear after dark. The cabin boy said he had gone to bed, and only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton relax. He and Faulkner went to Faulkner's cabin, the old salt sitting the boy down and demanding every single detail of what had happened.

Connor wasn't even sure where to _start_, he wanted the Old Man's counsel, but was afraid to even ask how Achilles was doing. Eventually he started with Valley Forge, the conditions there, the missing supplies, and coming across his father in the abandoned church. He kept the details as clinical as he could: the offered alliance; the repeated tests, sneaking into the camp, deliberately being captured, finding his own uniform in New York; the death of the teamster and the men in the warehouse, the broken promise of the terrified impostor, and the goal to find Church and get back the stolen supplies. Emotion swelled in him at odd parts, his voice shaking with anger of confusion or sadness, whichever felt the strongest, and when he had run out of words he looked up to Faulkner, lost as to what to do.

"I am afraid," he said softly. "He kills so coldly, without feeling or thought of the weight of the death. When I was younger I behaved similarly. I thought all evil I saw was the act of _atenenyarhu_, and I had no qualms of killing those who did bad things. Will I become-"

"_Never_, boy," Faulkner said before he could finish his question. "And if you even _think_ that again I'll have you swab the deck with the crew. No, captain, you'll never be like that Jonah albatross. The difference between Assassins and assassins is that we have the Creed. First tenet: Stay your blade. We only kill those what need to be killed. As for you: nobody understands the Creed right off; we all have to learn it the hard way, in spits and spurts, before we become Assassins. Adéwale had all kinds of stories about your grandfather before he learned the Creed, and just as many stories from after. If your own grandfather can make that big of a change, then you – who was already a fine boy when we first met, captain – will be just _fine_. As for your old man..."

He paused, silence drawing out as he considered his choices.

"Can't deny any man from knowing his old man," Faulkner said finally, "And you've got a long list of knowing, I'll give you that, boy, but you can't trust him."

"I do not."

Faulkner smiled, soft and sad and knowing all at once. "You've always been the smart one, boy. I'll tell you this, though, so long as he's on this ship, _you're_ the captain."

Connor frowned, confused. "But I am not-"

"The boys all call you 'captain' at any rate, but I'll pass word around, if you give any order we'll follow it. One thing's for sure, Connor, from everything you've just said, is that you want to prove to that Jonah albatross that you're worth knowin'. Can't say as I agree with you, but I'll be damned if it doesn't explain the chip on your shoulder that makes you so determined to better yourself, and we all love you enough that we'll try and make it work."

Another feeling swelled in his chest, one he had not felt since before leaving the Old Man, and he bit his lip against the warmth, looking down at his hands.

Haytham barely left his quarters, only stood silently by Connor's side when he was at the helm, eyes taking in everything, closed off to the world. The silence relieved Connor as much as it hurt him. He wanted to talk, wanted to share, but knew from their few days together that things would quickly devolve into an argument, and he did not want the crew to witness something that private. Haytham had said Connor lived because of curiosity. Why did he not ask questions?

As the silence drew out, however, Connor could not take it, he could not leave things on the upended note they had left off on, he had to keep trying.

Perhaps because they were on the _Aquila_, he asked the obvious question.

"What was _rakshótha_ like?" he asked over the wind, turning to port to compensate for an unusually strong gale.

"Who?"

"Grandfather. What was he like?"

Haytham said nothing for a long time, face closed off, before he gave a quick flick of the eyes, answering. "He was a drunken pirate," he said, "What else is there to know?"

"What was he _like_?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, Connor," Haytham said, voice distant and hard. "He died when I was ten years old. As a child I knew him only as the only man on Queen Anne's Square with scars on his face, ruggedly handsome and had a subdued charm. As I grew up I learned the truth, a truth this lot have failed to inform you, it seems. He was a shameless drunk who stole the ship he sailed and the men he captained. He was rowdy, violent, and solely interested in the furtherance of his own power – a fine _Assassin_, don't you think?"

"You mind your tongue, Kenway," Faulkner said. "He'd be ashamed to see what you turned into. If you were even half the man Eddie Kenway was the world would be a better place."

Connor watched as Haytham's eyes narrowed to near slits, lips thinning to a similar width, and felt his presence chill the very air. "I had the last man who said that to me killed."

"Aye," Faulkner said, his voice low and dangerous, "Adéwale. He was my master when I was recruited, and I'll have you know that if you even _think_ of speaking ill of _him_ you'll be locked in the brig faster than you can find your sea legs."

"Strange words coming from a First Mate," Haytham said in a blithe tone. "You almost sound like a captain."

Faulkner scoffed. "Who do you think sails this ship when the captain's away?" he said easily. "You think Cormac was any different with _his_ first mate? Or do you know something we don't?"

"Mind yourself," Haytham said in a low voice.

"I'll mind myself when you stop being colder than a brass monkey's balls," Faulkner countered. "You don't even realize what's happening do you? What the captain here is trying to do? Even my old man, drunk that he was, knew more about fatherin' than you, and I'm sorry for Eddie and Connor Kenway _both_, 'cause _you_ will never earn the right to the name."

"And what do you think that name actually means?" Haytham asked, voice rising slightly, irritation flushing his face. "Drunken buffoonery? Lechery? Greed? He was the living embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins: consumed with avarice, so envious of those in higher station he abandoned his first wife for a life at sea, angry at the world for the wrongs he felt were committed against him, too lazy to carve a life out of his own, too proud to let himself be dragged down by something like principle? Oh, _what_ a name it must have been. The white shadow of Blackbeard, the man who set his hair on fire to frighten the rats who lived at sea. Do you really think my father respected anything other than himself? Respected Jenny? Me? If he _did_ he wouldn't have _left_ in the first place."

"Respect? _Respect?_ Let me tell you the story about James Kidd and respect. Or Stede Bonnet or Blackbeard or Ah Tabai. Losing his way isn't the same as _finding_ his way, and when he found his way he was everything you _try_ to be: thoughtful, deliberate, attentive... And what do you have to show for yourself, eh? A rat's nest of followers, aye, any number of women to bed, money and alliances and power and intelligence, but you're still a little boy angry that his dad up and died when he was a lad. Do you even realize you've put your own son in the exact same position! Have you no sympathy for the pain you've inflicted on your own blood?"

"You might be right," Haytham said in a deceptively polite voice, almost sarcastic. "Save the fact that I never knew he existed! Charles had to tell me after Thomas' death just who Connor was, and only as of a few days ago do I even realize how he knew? Do you want me to get on my knees, beg forgiveness that Diio never bothered to mention she was pregnant? Ask that I be absolved from all my imagined slights?"

"Are Eddie Kenway's any _less_ imagined?" Faulkner countered.

"_Enough!_" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his voice echoing out over the deck, causing several crew members to look up from their work. "Both of you! Enough!"

The two older men seemed to only just realize the scene they were making, and Faulkner the damage he was doing. All anger disappeared like smoke, and he looked down. "Sorry, captain," he said, embarrassed. "Let my temper get the best of me. It'll not happen again."

"No, it will not," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "You are to be below decks for the rest of the day."

"What?" he said, surprised, before catching himself and looking even more ashamed. "Aye captain," he said.

"You as well, _Raké:ni_."

Haytham said nothing, looking at his son for a long, long time, before he simply turned and left. Faulkner stayed a moment longer, reaching out to touch the young native's shoulder, and disappearing as well. Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton let go of the breath he had been holding, shakily sucking in air as he tried to process what had just happened, what he had just learned about not only his father but his grandfather. It was work to remove his vice-like grip of the helm and leave it to another, and once he was free he climbed up to the crow's nest, where all he could hear was Tekawerahkwa, Breath of the Wind, and reach for stillness. He prayed to Iottsitíson, asking for guidance, opening the eagle of his mind and trying to be receptive to her voice. Wisdom, he needed wisdom to make sense of all of this. To decide what to do with this, how to feel about any of this. He stayed up there until well after dark.

* * *

It was the third week into the voyage, when Haytham's patience began to wane.

"I told you this was a poor heading," he said in an irritated voice, "Church is surely days ahead of us now."

Faulkner was increasingly quick to come to Ratonhnhaké:ton's defense. "Have some faith in the boy! He's yet to disappoint!"

"Well the bar's not been set very high now, has it?" Haytham retorted, apparently still sore from the argument earlier in the voyage.

"Do you want to go to the brig?" Faulkner demanded.

"We are closer than you think, Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly, trying to head off another fight and also irritated with the older man. Tekawerahkwa was pushing at the _Aquila's_ sails, a sure sign that they were close. They were only a day's sail from Martinique, and Faulkner had an uncanny knowledge of all the smuggler ports and beaches.

One of the Clutterbucks saw it first, Connor trying to keep the two men at his side from killing each other. "Ship ahoy!"

Everyone perked, getting ready for anything, waiting orders. Connor edged starboard, asking the bald eagle in his mind to awaken, trying to get a sense of the ship. "Is it the Welcome?" he called out, seeing if anyone could tell.

Faulkner held a hand over his brow, squinting and leaning out over the rail. "Aye!" he shouted. "And she's dropped anchor."

"Bring us in for a closer look, son," Haytham ordered. Ratonhnhaké:ton was becoming increasingly tired of being ordered around by his _raké:ni_, but he did so regardless, easing to half sail and inching his way up to the sloop's port. Nobody was on the deck, the sails were up, anchor down, no sign of activity or life. She was a ghost ship, empty of everything.

"It seems the ship has been abandoned," Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly, wondering what to do next.

"Church always was a slippery little bastard," Haytham cursed under his breath. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not used to hearing his cultured father swear, and was surprised to hear such vulgar language.

Then, "Enemy ahead! They're making to flee!"

All eyes snapped to the port, and there beyond the rocks of the cove was a schooner, sails just dropping down to catch the wind, turning their aft to them just as Clutterbuck had said. The eagle shrieked in his mind and he _knew_. "After them!" he shouted. "Full sail! Give me everything!"

"Full sail!" Faulkner repeated, "Go get that wind! Don't lose her!"

It was a flurry of activity to get the sails open while Connor pulled at the helm, shoving the rudder to adjust his heading just as Tekawerahkwa graced them with her wind, shoving them forward and nearly into the rocks the schooner was ducking behind. Ratonhnhaké:ton compensated quickly, his eagle still open and using everything that Faulkner had ever taught him about reading the wind and feeling a ship. They missed the rocks by inches, some of the men cursing at the close call, but now they had speed and the _Aquila_ was truly the fastest ship around. They gained easily two hundred meters in the span of fifteen minutes, and the schooner saw that it was in trouble.

"How is it you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail?" Haytham shouted, looking aft at the rocks they had missed. "Perhaps someone with more experience should take the wheel?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton ignored him, mind utterly focused on his task, emotions still as he focused on his goal. The schooner was small, nimble, and used that to its advantage, ducking in and out of rocks the _Aquila_ could not hope to steer through, forcing Ratonhnhaké:ton to take wider channels, hugging the coast and shallower waters, ducking sandbars and rocks alike. He called for half sail, needing more control over maneuvering. Faulkner's face was sagged in open awe as he watched his ship navigate the gauntlet, gulping and cursing at every near miss as the young native moved through it all with no damage.

"By God you're better than Saint Elmo's Fire!" he said.

Ratonhnhaké:ton cleared the rocks and hit more open waters. The schooner had gained ground, but not much, and the crew immediately pulled the half sail for Tekawerahkwa to push.

"Speed, Connor!" Haytham growled. "We need more speed! It's almost as though you _want_ him to escape!"

"_You_ don't give orders here, Kenway!"

It was a half hour later when the schooner – Ratonhnhaké:ton never did get the name – ducked into a narrow channel of water between some cliffs. The Aquila was too big to follow, and the young native moved starboard, again towards the shore, his eagle seeing the currents and the wind and making some quick calculations.

"Goddammit!" Haytham cursed again. "We're going to lose him!"

"What other choice have we?!" Faulkner countered. "Those rocks would crush us!"

"The current here is swift," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We still have a chance."

For an hour they navigated the shallow water, switching from half to full sail as Tekawerahkwa demanded, everyone silently hoping that they had not lost the schooner completely. Faulkner called for some nautical maps, trying to see where they were and calculating how fast they were going. Haytham paced back and forth, patience nearly at an end and looking positively murderous.

"There," one of the Clutterbuck's called out, "The edge of the cliffs!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton called for the cannons to be ready, pulling at the wheel and listening for every breath of wind; then all at once the cliffs were gone and there was not one but half a dozen schooners guarding a frigate. An ambush!

Scattershot erupted from two of the schooners, everyone ducking for cover except Ratonhnhaké:ton, pulling the _Aquila_ to starboard. "Port side!" he shouted, "Round shells! Fire!"

The crew followed the orders effortlessly, already loaded and ready to fire. Thirty seconds to aim was all they needed and as one the half dozen cannons exploded into action, sinking three of the six schooners in one impressive volley. The other three were more spread out in the small bay, harder to take out, and the frigate was trying to lower their sail.

Haytham was furious. "Church is using the ambush as cover. Sink him before he escapes! Send that bastard to the seafloor!"

"No!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted back, still maneuvering the _Aquila._ "I need his ship afloat. The cargo must be saved. Port side! Chain shot! Starboard, scatter!"

"Stop him, Connor! You should have listened to me! He's nearly away!"

"_Starboard! Fire!_"

The scattershot crippled one of the schooners, and once they were out of the way Ratonhnhaké:ton had the perfect angle. He didn't even need to give the order, the Clutterbucks were masters of their craft and had seen immediately what the young native was trying to do. The chain shot fired, sailing through the air and embedding itself in the mast of the frigate, ripping through sails and shredding several lines. Perfect. A glance starboard saw that they were loaded and ready to fire. He angled the _Aquila_, calling for half sail and aiming to maneuver between the two schooners. The two ships saw the play and happily partook, thinking a double broadside would cripple the brig easily. Instead, as they got close, Ratonhnhaké:ton ordered swivel guns, and with a bloodthirsty cry the crew happily followed suit, taking careful aim and shelling lead at the helm of both ships, causing havoc as everyone tried to duck the onslaught. With no one at the respective helms, the ships veered wherever the current took them, and in two volleys the ships were crippled.

With a sigh of relief, Ratonhnhaké:ton turned the ship around and began sailing back to the frigate. They would have to time it right, the ship might try to fire as they slid up. He gave a nod to Faulkner, the old salt more than aware of the danger.

"Men, prepare to board-"

But Haytham, apparently tired of waiting several hours for the natural course of a naval battle, came up on Ratonhnhaké:ton and brutally shoved him aside, taking the helm and spinning hard to port. No longer were they carefully angling for the best point of entry, but now instead going full tilt, to ram the ship. Faulkner moved to take the wheel but Haytham pulled a gun on him.

"What are you _doing_?!" the native shouted, the sudden shift of the ship sending him careening to the rail.

Haytham's face was black with hate. "Ending this," he growled.

The bowsprit whistled over the deck of the ship before the bow itself careened into the broadside, the crunchy noise of shattering wood burgeoning everywhere. Haytham – _insanely_ – let go of the wheel and ran over to the rail, leaping off and landing on the deck of the frigate in a tight roll. Ratonhnhaké:ton saw little after that, turning frantically back to the helm. Faulkner was already there, shouting for anchor.

"Secure the ships!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted. "_Secure the ships!_"

"Hook us in!" Faulkner shouted, trying to save the situation. "Bring her close! To arms! To arms!"

The Clutterbucks were already handing out muskets, ropes were swinging out to hold the two ships together, battening down tethers and beginning to swarm the crew on the other side. Ratonhnhaké:ton jumped to the other ship, forcing himself to ignore the fighting. He needed to get below deck. Who knew what madness his father intended after that.. that... that _stunt._ He breezed through the colliding bodies and shouts and curses and shots of muskets, _tamahac_ in hand as he finally found a way below deck. He kicked at the barricaded door several times before one of the Clutterbucks fired at the doorknob, destroying the lock while the other brother took an axe to the hinges.

Below was... empty. What did Church do with the cargo?

He moved through the empty hull, seeing scraps of boxes but no sign of true supplies. As he navigated the dim light, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, his eagle helping where it could. The sounds of fighting above slowly disappeared from his consciousness, and his eagle drew upon a different sound.

The sound of _hate_.

"So here we are, face to face at last, my 'friend.' It's been quite an adventure – let me _tell_ you – working my way through your nasty little _tricks_ and _traps_. Clever! _Some_ of them, anyway. I'll give you credit for that. And for the quietude with which you pulled it off." A pause. And then, louder than a cannon: "_We had a DREAM, Benjamin!_ A dream you sought to _destroy_! And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to _pay!_"

Ratonhnhaké:ton burst through the door, seeing his _raké:ni_ punching at the swelled and unrecognizable face of Benjamin Church, his face contorted with rage, teeth bared and breath in short, hot-blooded gasps. His fist was covered in blood, motions jerky and vicious. This was the true Haytham Kenway, all control stripped away, in all of his ugly glory. _This_ was the man who was responsible for creating Ratonhnhaké:ton.

He was repulsed.

"Enough!" he shouted over the man's hate. "We came here for a reason."

The glare he gave was bloodthirsty. "_Different_ reasons, it seems." Haytham gave one last punch before getting up, shaking his knuckles and powering away.

Ratonhnhaké:ton knelt down. Church was a mess, blood everywhere, several teeth were missing, one eye swollen shut. It was not just his face that was injured, his breath was bubbly and wet. All the frustration, the desperation to find him, the anger, it all faded away, and all the young native felt was pity.

"Where are the supplies you stole?" he asked softly.

Church struggled to get a breath. "... Go to hell."

Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed his hand on the man's chest, putting pressure on the collapsed lung and causing more pain. "I ask again: where are the supplies?"

Church gasped for air. "On the island yonder, awaiting pickup. But you've no right to it. It isn't yours."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton agreed, "not mine. Those supplies are meant for men and women who believe in something bigger than themselves. Who fight and die that one day they might be free from tyranny such as you."

Even dying, Church scoffed. "Are these the same men and women who fight with muskets forged from British steel? Who bind their wounds with bandages sewn by British hands. How convenient for them. We do the work. They reap the rewards."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "You spin a story to excuse your crimes. As though you're the innocent one and they the thieves."

"It's all a matter of perspective," Church said, holding his side, gasping for air. "There is no single path through life that's right and fair and does no harm. Do you truly think the Crown has no cause? No right to feel betrayed? You should know better than this, dedicated as you are to fighting Templars – who themselves see their work as just. Think on that the next time you insist your work alone befits the greater good. Your enemy would beg to differ – and would not be without cause."

As with his other targets, Church's words rang true, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he would spent many nights pondering them. He was never unaware of the British position in this war, their feeling that this was just a collection of rowdy children throwing a tantrum, and it was not without some identifiable justifications; but it was the fundamental belief that the colonies were _children_, to be mastered instead of loved, was the fundamental problem. Still, his first duty was mercy, and he extracted his hidden blade, giving a swift death. He spoke in his native tongue.

"Your words may have been sincere, but that does not make them true," he said.

Back on deck, the _Aquila_ had won, Faulkner making rounds and shaking hands. Haytham was there as well, perfectly put together, hands behind his back, as if he had not just performed savage brutality on a former ally.

"You did well," he said softly, with... pride. "His passing was a boon for us both. Come on. I expect you'll want my help retrieving everything from the island?"

His positivity was bitter in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mouth, and he looked to Faulkner, uncertain what to do. They talked briefly as the frigate was looted of what little booty it had, everyone wanting to salvage every possible supply that could be returned, Ratonhnhaké:ton explaining what had happened below. His growing fear, increasing a little more with every encounter, was the he was just like his father: cruel and brutal. His first kills, at thirteen, had been in berserk fury. He had slaughtered people he thought were _atenenyarhu_ before he understood the truth of what he was doing. Even now, with the understanding that killing people was not the answer, that did not stop him from crippling anyone who stood in his way – even now he felt no remorse for what he had done in the warehouse in New York, it was a fight for survival. He could easily picture himself breaking bones just to get a point across, and now he had seen Haytham do that very thing just to feel satisfaction against a man who had betrayed him.

… Ratonhnhaké:ton had been no less cruel in his words to Achilles.

Were they any different?

Faulkner was beside himself to hear the young native's fears, and as they found the supply dump the old salt's gaze at Haytham grew increasingly irate. Faulkner oversaw the loading, but he told Connor to stay on deck, not to help the men. That wasn't a captain's place. And Faulkner talked. A lot. Very quietly, and very gently. Connor knew it was to make him feel better, little anecdotes and histories of people Faulkner had known, ways to compare that Connor would never be the same as his father. But that didn't change all the similarities he saw. Haytham had given a piece of himself to create Connor, certainly those similarities had come from that. And Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned heavily at the very thought.

Loading the supplies took three hours, but when they were done, Faulkner had one last thing to say.

"It's a good thing this place it a smuggler's cove," he called down to Haytham, voice falsely cheerful. "It's even better Church said all these supplies were waiting pickup. You'll be here only two or three days."

Haytham and several crew members blinked. But the Clutterbuck brothers both started to smile, as well as the higher ranked members of the crew.

"What?" Haytham said, surprise breaking his stoic face.

Slowly, one by one, the rest of the crew nodded in approval as they whispered to one another and figured out what was going on.

"You're done, Kenway," Faulkner said. "You've done more than enough damage to this ship, to her crew, and to our captain. I'll not let a Jonah albatross like you on this ship. Find your own way back to the Colonies."

Connor turned, and looked to Faulkner, surprised and so very grateful for a chance to get away from his father and just _think_ about everything. Leaving Haytham behind might be cruel, but it wouldn't be brutal with pickup imminent.

"You can't be serious," Haytham said, tone dismissive and incredulous all at once, already proudly stepping forward to get on board.

"He can," David Clutterbuck said, voice cold and pistol out before Haytham even made it ten feet within the gangplank. "Unless you want to go up against the entire crew?" His brother stood at his shoulder, and one by one everyone on the beach stood against the Templar, each and every one of them silently daring the grandmaster to challenge being left behind. Haytham's face was closed off, distance.

"You ain't no father," Faulkner continued. "A father is more than just donating a bit of blood to the creation of life. A father is _there_ for his kids whenever he can be, provides to make life easier for them, to teach them all the things it takes to be a _man_. You ain't no father, Kenway. You're just a blood donor."

Haytham said nothing, staring up as the crew all boarded and lifted the gangplank. Then he finally nodded.

Faulkner turned to Connor. "Captain Davenport," he said crisply, "awaiting your orders."

Connor, against his will, felt his eyes water. Turning, he walked to the helm, shouting orders to get the ship underway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (aka justifying Haytham part 2). We said in the last chapter's notes that Haytham is emotionally damaged goods, and it becomes blatantly apparent here. So many fanfics are enamoured by Haytham and want him to be the good guy they try to justify him being a Templar in name only, of not following the Rite, of doubting Templar ideals. And, honestly - at the beginning of the game this might have been possible. Ziio would have been a good influence on him once she wormed her way passed the emotional distance he held everyone to, but the fact of the matter is that that didn't happen. Haytham is instead hurt even further by the events of finding Jenny, learning about Reginald Birch role in his father's death, and his own near death and Holden's suicide. However much we are critical of Mr. Bowden's work, the amount of emotional upheaval Haytham goes through in that book is enough to hurt him beyond repair: in other words, he gives up on humanity as every Templar does and submits himself to putting himself above everyone and right the wrongs that were done to him.
> 
> Haytham is brutal in his language in the game - most especially in this memory - and moreso, he is unrepentant, even at the end later. Rogue enforces this with his confrontation with Adewale - which actually adds another layer that he held Edward in contempt, and from there it doesn't take much for his character to take shape.
> 
> But honestly, justifying Haytham at this point is moot, because half of this chapter is shameless self-gratification as we take one of our favorite things to do, character development, and PLAY. This chapter is glorious because is covers so many things: philosophy, history, Haytham, Connor's very messed up feelings, Eddie Kenway, all in the name of character development. Nobody leaves this chapter unchanged, everyone learns something for good or ill, and we get to compare and contrast two characters that are intimately tied to one another. There is no small amount of revelry here, it is intense and emotional and downright worldshaking for Connor's POV, disquieting and insightful all in one breath, and for Connor who has so continuously run away from his feelings about his father it's almost too much for him to take and remain sane. We worry that we took it too far (and this doesn't even get into later memory sequences) but at the same time we couldn't quite help ourselves.
> 
> We hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Next chapter: The story of Shay Cormac. As if we haven't done enough to Connor...
> 
> Pour no frères et sœurs en France: Nous sommes avec vous. Nos coeurs, nos esprits, nos prières. Vive la France! We would have written that sooner, but we put in the chapter notes Friday night after beating AC Syndicate. We woke up in the morning to learn what happened... There's a person we gamed with on AC Unity, we only know him through the game; no email, no name, nothing. We've left six messages in the game but we haven't heard from him... Though honestly no one's playing Unity now that Syndicate is out, and who's even gaming now with all that's going on in France? Still... Nous sommes avec vous!


	23. Death of an Admiral

Even though Faulkner was the captain of the _Aquila_, everyone still turned to Connor for orders. After sailing out of the cove where they'd left Haytham, Connor turned to Robert. "Mr. Faulkner," he said softly, his feelings still a tangled web knotted around a twisted net, "I will not be like my father in this. I must ensure that someone arrives in a few days."

"Nearest ports are Dominica and St. Lucia, almost the same time to sail," Robert replied softly. "But he'll be expecting that. I'd go for Barbados, though it's out of our way. Makes him wait a few more days, and we can stop off for repairs if we fly a British flag."

"Will that not take us further south?"

Robert gave a grim smile. "Might confuse Kenway a bit."

Connor couldn't decide how he felt about it, but it was a plan which was more than he could think of with all the confusion surging through him after such a short time.

He wanted to talk to Achilles. Desperately. The Old Man always helped put things in perspective with his experience. And Ratonhnhaké:ton needed that help now more than ever. Faulkner was a great support, but Achilles wouldn't coddle him with sympathy. He'd lay out the truth, no matter how harsh it was, and then let Ratonhnhaké:ton come to his own conclusions. Then whack him with his cane if he came to a stupid conclusion and spell it out all over again. But Achilles was weeks away, and even if they set sail straight away, that didn't change the fact that Connor had promised to return these supplies to Commander Washington. Responsibilities first. His confused, muddled, mess of emotions simply needed to wait. So he buried it as best he could, and spent a lot of time up in the crow's nest just looking at the vast expanse of blue that surrounded them.

Barbados was one hundred and forty miles south east of Martinique, where they'd left Haytham. An island first found by the Spanish, but never settled, then the Portuguese, who simply left hogs to go wild for a meat source when people returned, and finally by the British who brought in settlers and started to establish a colony. Unlike other islands in the Caribbean, it did not usually face hurricanes, being too far south, and it made for relatively safe port.

Repairs took only two days, with the crew working more slowly than they normally would, leaving Connor suspecting that they were deliberately giving him time to reorient himself. Barbados was rich with the slave trade, so Connor mostly stayed in his small cabin, avoiding anything and just thinking. After they were repaired and restocked, Connor braved the docks to let a few of the crews know that there was a stranded man on Martinique.

March seventeenth, a few of the crew were celebrating St. Patrick's Day with a barrel of whiskey that was being passed out in almost rations by the cook. Connor was once more up in the crow's nest, simply listening to the wind and watching the wide expanse of sea and sky that surrounded him. The peace and tranquility was like a balm, and though the ship was ever rocking and moving, he could find stillness, for a short time, high above the crew and staring at clouds and reading the wind.

But as the Irish members of the crew sipped their whiskey to savor every drop of the small portions that had been handed out, Connor noticed something. Off the coast of Barbados was smoke, not clouds. That might mean trouble with it so close. He immediately descended, his swift arrival surprising many of the crew who were a bit tipsy. "Mr. Faulkner, smoke off the coast. There's a fight and with these winds, it might bring it to our wake."

"Damn," Faulkner cursed. "Look lively! Trouble astern! We're turning to investigate! Check those lines, inspect those cannons! We won't be blindsided!"

The crew immediately set to work, whiskey put away, as they came about and headed to the smoke on the horizon. Once more in the crow's nest, Connor was watching through the spyglass, senses alert, as he saw a small frigate flying an American flag firing a broadside against a massive British man-o-war that easily had twice the guns.

"American firing on British," he called down. But he spotted something else. "The _Randolph_!"

"Raise a British flag!" Faulkner called out. "We're joining that fight! That damned Biddle's going _down_!"

They were still an hour away from the battle at least, so Connor stayed in the crow's nest, calling down events as they happened.

The British man-o-war was the _Yarmouth_, and Connor could not figure out how Biddle could possibly think he could win. A small frigate with, at most, twelve-pound shot that would have no hope of penetrating the _Yarmouth's_ scantlings, versus a man of war with twelve, twenty-four, _and_ thirty-two pound shot? Biddle was firing volley after volley, easily getting three or four in to every one that the _Yarmouth_ shot, but even with that speed, there just wasn't enough power.

Faulkner's voice was getting horse as he bellowed out orders left and right, struggling to get the _Aquila_ close enough and into position to join the fray. All of the _Aquila_'s guns were primed and ready, they just needed proximity.

The _Randolph_ slipped along the bow of the _Yarmouth_ and attempted to rake the ship, but winds were to the _Yarmouth_'s favor as it narrowly turned, letting it's armored hull take the shot and preventing much damage from guns that were easily a quarter of the _Yarmouth_'s strength. But the bowsprit snapped, showing that the _Randolph_ could do damage to rigging and masts instead of hulls.

"They'll be aiming for masts after that!" Faulkner shouted. "Get moving! We need to draw the fire!"

But they just weren't close enough. The next volley from Biddle did indeed aim for the masts, and Connor watched sails and rigging come loose, but it seemed Biddle needed a new gunner since the aim had yet again not hit the desired mark, despite the man-o-war being slower and less maneuverable compared to the frigate.

But aiming for the masts had been a mistake. Biddle was left wide open, the _Randolph_ not able to reload fast enough, and in perfect position for the _Yarmouth_ to open a massive broadside that decimated the _Randolph_.

"Weak spot!" one of the crew shouted. And there was, on the side the _Yarmouth_ couldn't see, and the _Aquila_ was finally within firing range.

"Swivels!" Faulkner bellowed. "_Fire!_"

The explosion was massive, the weak spot having exposed the powder magazine, and the fireball that blew engulfed the ship in under a second before ballooning up into the sky as black smoke. Many of the crew started cursing, as debris from the explosion flew far away from the epicenter. From Connor's perch in the crow's nest, he saw a body land on the deck of the _Yarmouth_, and Connor had little doubt that if any of the crew of the _Randolph_ survived, it would be pure luck.

"Look sharp lads! We're looking for survivors!"

"Who woulda survived _that_?"

"We're making sure!" Faulkner snapped back. "Now get on those lines! Pack up the guns, we don't want to offend the _Yarmouth_ after all that!"

Both the _Yarmouth_ and the _Aquila_ searched the debris and started fishing out bodies for a proper burial at sea and polite words were exchanged back and forth via flags until they were close enough to call. Faulkner was spokesman and Connor kept out of sight, uncertain how viewing a native on a British ship might be taken. He knew that his people were neutral, at his urging of Oiá:ner and Kanen'tó:kon, but there were many debating if they should play a role or not in the war and which side would benefit their people more. He was many weeks travel from where all the information was, and without knowing the current state of things, he believed it better to simply be hidden.

Of the crew of three-hundred and five, five survivors were found. Four were found by the _Yarmouth_, but there was one that the _Aquila_ found that nobody told the _Yarmouth_ about.

Biddle lay on their deck, gasping under the moon, his face almost unrecognizable with burns and charring. He glared around him, somehow holding on through sheer stubborn will. "Tenacious," he wheezed. "Smart... Mr. Kenway would have rewarded me greatly... for ridding him of you..."

"That Jonas albatross is marooned at the moment," Faulkner replied coldly, kneeling down to the Admiral. "And you're dying. Your reign over the coast has come to an end."

"Ha!" Biddle spat between gasps. "Is that why you hunted me?" he broke down into coughing. "You Assassins are every bit... the fools I was told."

Faulkner scowled. "You brought pain and suffering upon innocent people for nothing but personal gain, as I see it. And I've been trailing after you long enough _to_ see it."

"Pain... Suffering... I set them free," Biddle replied between wheezes. "Weeded out dissenters... empowered the Patriots... So what if I... was named Admiral... Revolution needs one... I'm the best man... for the job... Only man... If not for me... Continental Navy would... remain a handful of rafts... You Assassins are blind..."

"And you Templars are frozen to any and all growth," Faulkner replied. With a flick of his wrist, the old sea-salt's hidden blade appeared, only rarely ever used, and in a swift precise strike, pierced Biddle's neck. "Rest in peace, you bastard."

Biddle was then dumped in the sea, and even in the dead of night, Faulkner took the helm and started shouting orders to get them far enough away from the debris and Biddle's body. Everyone was silently working, tired after a long day and slightly disgruntled to still be working so late into the night. Connor stood by Faulkner's shoulder, a towering shadow.

"Mr. Faulkner?" he asked quietly. Connor had been through enough emotional turmoil in the span of the last few weeks to know that Faulkner was having difficulty putting the end of this long pursuit away.

Faulkner was silent for a moment, before he took a deep breath. "Victory for the _Aquila_!" he bellowed. "For her glory! Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!" the crew responded, exhaustion disappearing in a moment, as it seemed to sink in to everyone at once that they had finished off the man they'd been pursuing for years.

"Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!"

The cheering continued in the dark, and Faulkner started to sing. "I've been wild a rover for many a year... And I spent all me money on whiskey and beer... And now I'm returning..."

* * *

It was late April, Connor now twenty-two, when they arrived at the massive opening of the Delaware River between Delaware and New Jersey and started to sail up to Philadelphia. Once at the city, Connor disembarked, once more in his hood and moccasins, and prepared a convoy to start riding up the Schuylkill River. It was just over thirty miles and took two days, with the wagons having difficulty with some of the rougher terrain, particularly as they finally approached the encampment. The pickets, while clearly looking at the long train of supplies greedily, were better trained than when Connor had been at the camp mere months earlier. Instead they barked instructions, sending a runner back into camp to send word that a half-breed named Connor had "offerings from Church". Several questioned what religion in the colonies had enough to provide such a long train of supplies, but Connor said nothing, just waited patiently.

Within forty minutes, a man on horse was galloping forward. He had lost the powdered wig, and the finery was still exquisite if showing more signs of wear than the last time he'd seen them, but Connor recognized him nonetheless.

"Marquis," he greeted with a nod. "I was not expecting someone of your rank to come and meet us."

The pickets all blinked, surprised that the half-breed knew the upper ranks at all.

"_Monsieur_ Connor," Lafayette greeted with a large smile. "When zhe messenger mentioned your name I wondered. Zhen he said you had offerings from _Church_. I just had to make sure zhat I was right."

Connor gave a wan smile. "His ship mysteriously sank off the coast of Martinique. But I was able to... salvage a few things."

"Zhis is true," Lafayette said, his smile growing even larger. "You work zhe miracles, _non_?"

"No, I stop evil where I see it."

Lafayette laughed. "Come! We'll let zhe teamsters handle our supplies. _You_, I wish to ride with."

Connor's chuckle was soft, but genuine, as he nudged his speckled mare forward.

"I believe I see improvement among the men," Connor said after a few minutes as they rode through the snowy trail back to camp.

"_Oui_, zhey have come a long way," Lafayette nodded. "A Prussian named Von Steuben arrived in _Février_, and he has been drilling zhe men constantly day after day. No breaks, no rests, and Von Steuben will get into zhe snow and mud himself to show zhem how it is done. Zhe one's he teaches are all from different units, and he intends to send zhem back to zheir units in order to train _zhem_. But his biggest task has been sanitation."

Given how pitiful the camp had been when Connor had first been there, that was quite understandable. "Indeed."

"It was quite zhe task for him, getting men to understand that zhere is a latrine and zhat _zhat_ is the only place to go, and it is now on zhe opposite size zhe camp from zhe kitchens. Disease has been cut down dramatically, and zhe men know who has done zhis, so now zhey listen."

"It is fortunate for this army that he has arrived then."

"_Vrai_." They rode in silence, and Connor reflected on how proud Lafayette seemed of the men, of the revolution, from the few times he'd spoken to him. And since it was something different to think of, something unrelated to his father and the tangled mess therein, Connor started to wonder.

"I wish to ask you something," he said softly. "Why is this revolution so important you?"

Lafayette hmmed, looking thoughtful. "Since I decided to embark upon zhis adventure, zhrough all the lords and merchants and soldiers I've spoken to," he said softly, "you are zhe first to ask me zhis. Connor, have you ever been to France?"

Connor chuckled. "I'm not sure if Martinique counts."

Lafayette laughed as well. "I suppose it does, but I meant _France_, not one of zhe colonies."

"I have not."

The Frenchman who was also an American general, gave a wistful sigh. "One day," he said softly, "when all of zhis is over, I will invite you to Paris to stay with me and my family. She is zhe most beautiful city in zhe world, Connor, full of art and culture, women and wine. But she is sick on zhe inside, black and rotting."

Connor frowned, trying to picture it, but without a proper context, it was difficult. Paris was a city that was hundreds and hundreds of years old. Only the largest cities in America reached over a century, and the homes that _were_ thousands of years old, like his valley at Kanatahséton did not have structures that endured as settler construction did. He shook his head, unable to see what Lafayette was staring at.

"But here..." Lafayette said with wonder, "here is somezhing quite different. On zhe outside, the colonies are dirty and dangerous, unforgiving and uncivilized."

Connor disagreed with that on _many_ levels.

"But on zhe inside, they _glow_. Looking at Boston, or Trenton, or Philadelphia, zhey are rough, edgy, fighting to survive in a harsh world, where survival is not simply guaranteed. But zhe cities zhey _glow_, with perseverance, hard work, determination, vitality, _fraternité, liberté, égalité_. And zhat is why I am here. To learn." Lafayette looked to Connor, with fierce determination and stubbornness. "I want to return home able to touch France's black heart and make it _glow_ once more."

"I wish you luck," Connor replied. "Take the lessons you learn, and make certain you teach them well."

They had finally reached the Potts home and the command center of the army. Connor noticed that there were many women about, and it seemed that several wives had come to join their husbands while wintering.

"Connor," came a call, and Connor turned in his saddle to see Washington approaching, a small woman on his arm.

"Commander," he greeted, swinging down from his horse. Immediately an aide sprang forward to take the reins and Connor blinked, surprised at the gesture. "I see things have improved for you."

"They have indeed," Washington replied. "I wish for you to meet my wife, Martha."

"Ma'am," Connor greeted softly, nodding his head. "Your people call me Connor."

The small woman gave a gentle, gracious smile. "Do your people have family names? Or are they like the natives in Virginia and only give you one name?"

Asking about his family name was a stab at a wound that was far too fresh from his sail down to Martinique, and Connor glanced down. "My people do not have family names, but we belong to clans. However my father..." Connor hesitated. Then he sighed. "My father is not a man I wish to acknowledge as my father for his brutality and cruelty. I choose not to bear his name."

Martha was clearly embarrassed, and Connor wondered if he should have been so honest. The white man masked everything in politeness and manners, sometimes not even saying what was truly meant, and Connor had to admit that as confused as he was about things, he tended to forget the white man's customs.

"I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean to bring up unpleasantness. I... had to work with my father recently and it... did not go well."

Washington started to redirect the conversation. "He helped with the Church affair?"

Connor grimaced. "Yes."

"If he helps the army and leaves you be, I would be very happy," the large Virginian said gently. "You deserve better, especially after... New York," he finished awkwardly.

"I do not blame you, Commander."

"Oh listen to us, chatting in the cold," Martha clucked. "We have a good fire in the Potts house, let's go warm up."

"I will only be staying the night," Connor said as they walked up to the house. "I must be on my way tomorrow. I have been away for some time and must see to other things."

Martha tsked again. "Always on the run. What does your wife say?"

"I am not married."

"Ah, that explains a few things."

Connor did not understand this woman at all.

He was invited to dine with all the officers that evening, and though he initially refused, wishing to again reach for stillness after the chaos of his feelings had been so unknowingly poked, Martha was soon cajoling him into joining. He still remained apart, sticking to the shadows, and not socializing. He was not a part of the army, for all that he supported it. And the fewer who knew of his existence the better.

But as tea and coffee was passed around, everyone was asked to sing, one by one. It was Lafayette who poked at Connor, asking him to sing, and Connor realized that many eyes were on him. Feeling caught, he worried his hands together. "Singing for my people... is different," he said softly. "To sing is to call for healing, or the spirits, or for prayer. To sing to entertain is..." Connor hunted for the right word... "Sacrilegious."

There was an awkward moment, and Connor could not believe how many awkward moments he'd been through since arriving. But Martha came to his rescue, her voice starting a folk song, and with attention successfully diverted, Connor left.

Washington found him out on the porch, and the large Virginian simply stood beside him.

"I apologize," he said softly. "Song... is something that perhaps we take for granted."

Connor let out a heavy sigh. "The only way for peace to exist is for people to understand each other. To understand requires listening and sharing knowledge. To those like the British who stop their ears and scream so no one else can be heard, there can be no understanding. But explaining things to the white man, who hides in manners and society, can sometimes be very hard."

"And explaining those manners and society must be hard for natives like you who don't share the same need of subterfuge," Washington replied. "I know you wish to leave in the morning, but would you stay for a day? We got word an hour ago and I intend to share it with the men. I think you might enjoy it."

"Very well. But I must push on at night."

Washington gave a small smile. "And avoid awkward conversations again?"

Connor chuckled softly. "Something like that." He looked out to the camp again, and remained amazed at the work that had been done in the short time he'd been gone. "How are your assistants faring?"

Washington's smile was proud as he looked out to the army. "Without them we would be lost. It's as simple as that. Whether it's Von Steuben demanding his aide swear at the soldiers a certain way, or Lafayette's clear visibility in his belief in what he's fighting for, or Casimir Pulaski showing us things on horseback we hadn't thought possible, we are benefitted by our time here, despite the horror at the start."

Washington turned and gave a bright smile. "The British are in for a surprise this summer."

"I look forward to that day, Commander."

"As do I, Connor. As do I."

The following day, after morning drills where Connor witnessed firsthand just how firm and strict a taskmaster Von Steuben was, Washington called all the men together, reading out a proclamation from France. A proclamation of alliance, between the far off country and that of America.

The army roared, cheered, screamed. Lafayette was in tears and in shock, having not expected anything, and as the shock gave way, a single cry rose from the thousands within the valley.

"Long live France! Long live the friendly powers! _Long live the United States of America!_"

Connor smiled, letting the happiness soak into him and fill him. He ended up staying the night to join in the celebration, though he stuck even further in the shadows, before mounting and riding off into the night.

It had been a long five months. But he was ready to return to Achilles.

* * *

The sail was long, it seemed, Connor still self-exiled to the crow's nest, trying to put his thoughts together before meeting the Old Man. Thoughts of his father were a tangled mess, he could not sort them out on his own, and as he came closer and closer to the homestead, his thoughts turned more and more to his last words with Achilles.

_"Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is _not_ a fairy tale and there are _no_ happy endings."_

_"No. Not when men like you are left in charge."_

Not when men like you are left in charge.

The words haunted him, now. Haytham Kenway's offhand comments about the blood on Achilles' hands, the tightlipped refusal to talk about the death of the Order in any but the broadest terms, the name Shay – and most importantly, that look of raw pain in the normally intractable face. More and more he squirmed at his actions, coming to understand that he was still ignorant of many things, and that he had no right to speak of that which he did not know. He could not imagine what could have possibly happened to hurt Achilles so much, but he respected the man enough to know that he should never have made assumptions. He watched the stars and listened to Tekawerahkwa's wind for many nights, restless and unable to relax with his heart in such turmoil.

Because of that, he was asleep when the _Aquila_ docked at Rockport, awoken only when Faulkner came in to rouse him.

"I've just let the Old Man know we're here," the old salt said. "Didn't say much, figured you wanted to lay it out for him yourself. Your hunter Myriam was busy over the winter, got a damned fortune in furs. Ellen's got things bound for New York, and in a week that funny carpenter will have a new set of furniture to be delivered. I'm off nearly as quick. Now go see the Old Man before he decides to sic all those recruits of yours on me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, disembarking and looking up the long path to the homestead and hoping... He shook his head. He needed to apologize first.

He walked up the hill slowly, his feet dragging as he made his way up. How would the Old Man receive him? With hatred? Contempt? Would he spurn Ratonhnhaké:ton's regret, as he should, or cast him out of the Order? Always Achilles gave the impression that Connor was little more than a bother, wishing only to be left alone with his pain. Did he at last have the excuse to be rid of the young native? The thought caused irrational fear in Connor, he did not want to be _alone_ again, as he had been in Kanatahséton. The others in the village did not understand him – not even his beloved friend Kanen'tó:kon, or Oiá:ner – both of whom did their best to help him. They cared, certainly, they loved him as they loved any of their home, but there was a vast chasm that they could not ford, for they did not understand the anxiety that he lived with every day. Oiá:ner came the closest, she knew the pain he held in his heart, and she knew the dangers of letting it fester, but she could not fix the damage that had been done to him. Kanen'tó:kon accepted him as he was, content to see Ratonhnhaké:ton as he was and not try to fix or change him. His best friend took his pain in stride and allowed him the right to feel it, but he never even tried to understand it, simply shrugging it off as just how Ratonhnhaké:ton was.

It had been Achilles who _understood_. Who saw the anxiety and knew immediately what it was, why it was, and how to cope with it – not fix it, but _cope_ with it. Achilles had taken his overwhelming fear of being attacked again, vulnerable again, and channeled it into something positive: protecting his people. Single-handedly he gave Ratonhnhaké:ton the skills to survive in a world that was hostile to him, the boundaries to push against to improve himself, the confidence to take on the task Iottsitíson had given him. Achilles and the _Hirokoa_ were as Skennenrahawi, the Great Peacemaker.

Skennenrahawi established the Great Law of Peace, making the Haudenosaunee and banishing all the old ways. They forbade violence and cannibalism, black magic and human sacrifice, understanding that life was a sacred thing to be cherished. His friend and orator Hiawatha had created the first wampum belt, using the sacred beads to tell the story of the Haudenosaunee. _Hirokoa_ promoted patience, tolerance, waiting for others to understand the truth of the world the value of life.

But... at the same time, they killed people. Those that did not agree with them, such as the Templars, were put under the blade. At first he thought it normal, justified, because the Templars were _Atenenyarhu_, cannibals who would eat the world, but now... after having met his father...

He shook his head again. Apology first.

For the second time in his memory, Achilles was not at the door to greet him, and guilt filled his already tight chest as he silently padded into the manor, toes curled in his moccasins. No one was in the foyer, and Ratonhnhaké:ton closed his eyes and listened, calling on his eagle. The others were not in the house, Duncan or Stephane, Dobby or Jamie. Only in the back bedroom did he hear signs of life, the faint scratching sound of a quill on paper. Achilles was here.

Connor took a long, deliberate moment, holding his breath, reaching for stillness, and walked down the hall.

Achilles, of course, already knew he was there.

"Welcome back," he said in a wry, welcoming voice. "And how was Martinique?"

"_How is it you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail? Perhaps someone with more experience should take the wheel?_"

"_Speed, Connor! We need more speed! It's almost as though you want him to escape!_"

"_Stop him, Connor! You should have listened to me! He's nearly away!_"

"_We had a DREAM, Benjamin! A dream you sought to destroy! And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay!_"

And...

"_You did well. His passing was a boon for us both._"

But also,

_"Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is _not_ a fairy tale and there are _no_ happy endings."_

_"No. Not when men like you are left in charge."_

His _raké:ni_ would have to wait. This was more important.

"Achilles, I," he said softly, tentatively. He frowned, surprised to hear himself struggle when it was the right thing to do. He tried again. "I owe you an apology."

The Old Man waved his hand, quill and all, dismissing the words without even looking up from his paper. Several pieces lay crumpled around the desk, signs of false starts and scattered thoughts. What was he writing about? Connor pushed the thought aside, as well as Achilles' dismissal. This needed to be said. "It was wrong of me to say the things I did. You were right about the value of silence in our work, and you were right about the commander, and you-"

The Old Man looked up, the brim of his hat lifting and Connor saw his eyes. His _eyes..._ they were sunken in, baggy, tired. For the first time Achilles looked... _old_. Disquiet burned in Connor's mind, and he almost didn't hear the words that followed. "Your words were harsh, Connor, but there was also truth there. I failed the Order. Allowed the Templars to take control." There was long, deep, bone-weary sigh. "It's time you knew the truth about Shay Cormac."

That name...

Connor took a seat, Achilles leaning back at his desk and turning to look at the stuffed eagle.

"That was a gift from Kesegowaase," he said in a thin voice. "Liam and I met him in '46. He was an Abenaki, specifically Wolastoqiyik. A gifted hunter and fighter, he worked as a mercenary for the French when the British tensions inevitably rose. We had been exchanging letters for almost two years by that point, and when I explained the goals of the Order he was happy to join, and he gave the Order that as a gift. He was the first to realize Shay was still alive. No," he added, "I must start farther back. You know of the Pieces of Eden?"

"_Hén_," Connor said. "They are gifts left by the Spirits, we and the Templars seek to collect them to protect or use them respectively. You said the globe at Kanatahséton was likely such a piece, and that the place my people guard might be a Temple of the Spirits."

"There are many kinds, Connor. Apples, crystals, swords, staffs; your grandfather found a Piece of Eden shaped as a human skull, used to watch people from great distances. Assassins look for such items because we feel them too dangerous to use. Those Who Came Before see us as little more than infants, they hold us in contempt and are just as frustrated with us as we often are with them. A hammer in the hands of an architect will build a house, but in the hands of a child will kill a person. Whatever the Pieces of Eden do, however they were meant to be used, it is beyond our comprehension to fathom and should be left alone. That is a lesson I, we, the Assassins learned the hard way."

Connor frowned, uncertain where this was heading.

"There are Pieces of Eden, Connor, that hold the world together," Achilles said. "I learned too late just what that meant. Adéwale, the man who taught me everything I knew after Ah Tabai recruited me... there was an earthquake in Port-au-Prince, in '52. Adéwale said the destruction was incalculable. We were looking for Temples at the time, and we had no idea whether one had been found or not. That should have been the first warning." Something in Achilles' eyes drifted away, lost in something, his face shutting down. A long, long pause drew out, Connor quietly waiting for him to continue, afraid that he wouldn't, afraid to prompt him, afraid of what he would hear.

Achilles shook himself out of the gaze, glancing at Connor's struggle for patience and sighed. "The Templars took several pieces of Eden because of that, and the West Indies lost many good Assassins. Adéwale chased them as far as New York and passed the torch on to us. It took some time..." A look of raw pain crossed Achilles' face, old and unhealed, touching on something Connor had only ever seen once before, when the Old Man saw the covered painting. He glanced at the archway, knowing it still lay in the dining room by the fireplace, unopened. "... but eventually we got the artifacts back, and we used them to find other locations. Shay Cormac, he was a young buck under our tutelage. Young, brash, yet to understand the Creed, but he recognized one of the sites, a convent in Lisbon. With Liam out on assignment, and Shay desperate to prove himself, I sent him to locate the Temple and retrieve any Pieces of Eden that existed. If I knew then what I know now..."

Telling the story was painful for Achilles, Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen the Old Man's face be so expressive, so contorted in bitterness. He stooped in the chair, and Connor realized how thin his shoulders were, how small he looked. Achilles was an old man, fallible and frail and putting himself through torture to make Ratonhnhaké:ton understand something. Blood rushed in his ears as he realized what was happening, and for the first time in his life stillness came naturally to him. He stayed still because he knew; he knew that if he dared move the Old Man, no, the old man would break into a hundred pieces, and there would be no hope of putting him back together again. He gulped, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he watched, utterly silent.

"... When Shay came back," Achilles said after another agonizing pause, licking his lips and struggling to form the words, "He was inconsolable. He tried to explain, tried to get us to understand, but he was nearly mad with grief. Lisbon had suffered an earthquake, just as Port-au-Prince. The Piece of Eden, once removed, tore the earth asunder. Shay was devastated that he had caused all that destruction, and in his grief he blamed me." Deep brown eyes glowed against the dark skin, the stark contrast of the whites of his eyes uncanny. "He should have.

"He was incoherent. No," he corrected, aging years as he spoke, "that's not true, he made perfect sense, but none of us could believe it. Even in a world where Apples control the thoughts of others and Those Who Came Before visit us from the past, where beams of light can murder men en masse, still we could not comprehend the idea of one man simply _causing _an earthquake. It was inconceivable. I thought perhaps there was a mistake, some error made by a young impetuous boy who hadn't yet learned the Creed. I was not ready to accept..." Another sigh. A wince. A hand went up to his aged face, rubbing at his eyes, Connor slowly became convinced Achilles was hiding his tears, but they were dry when he finally pulled himself together.

"... I had just lost them..."

The whisper was so soft Ratonhnhaké:ton almost didn't hear it.

"I can make the excuses, say I wasn't in my right mind, say my intentions were just, say anything to make it sound better, but the truth is an ugly thing, Connor: I did not believe Shay. I did not believe an Assassin when he told me there was incalculable danger in those artifacts. I was too consumed by my own losses that I could not bear the thought of being even more wrong than I already was. That arrogance cost me everything I had left."

"Stop." The words fell out of his mouth before he could fully realize he was saying it. "Please. This hurts you too much. I am sorry that-"

"No, boy, it's past time you knew," Achilles said, a flicker of fierceness crossing his face. "If you're going to go after the Templars, if you're determined to embroil yourself in this war and follow it through to the end, you need to understand just what the stakes are, just what you will be held responsible for. Shay didn't, and in his mourning he stole that damned Precursor box and tried to flee the homestead, shouting that he wouldn't allow us to slaughter any more innocents, reviling me for the damage I had done, and ultimately committing suicide by jumping off the cliff by the falls.

"At least... we thought he was dead..."

Another pause drew out, Achilles leaning back in his chair, closing his ancient eyes and taking slow, shuddering breathes, exhausted by what he had said so far. A hand went to his face again, rubbing his eyes and forehead, leaning forward and putting his weight on an elbow, supported by his good knee. Connor watched in perfect stillness, chest tight.

"A year later Kesegowaase saw him, helping a Templar named Colonel George Monro, a member of the British regulars at Fort William Henry. That was when we learned that he was still alive. He disrupted Kesegowaase's plans to kill him, and then appeared again when Kesegowaase was trying to persuade an Oneida tribe to ally with us. Shay was shouting that he was freeing the tribe from us."

"You would never-"

"We would," Achilles said, eyes dark and haunted and bitter. "We _have_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't even _grasp_ what the Old Man had just said.

"You... you..."

"Twice, while I was Mentor," Achilles said. "Both times with small, isolated tribes that were determined to make war for no reason other than to shed blood, tribes so battered and abused by the settlers they thought their only recourse was to pursue bloody revenge. We took hold of the village, and then Kesegowaase or myself would come and we would talk and talk and _talk _until the hot heads were settled. Once we had to assassinate three braves. We are not the servants of the Sky Goddess, Connor, we are killers. We choose our targets, we justify what we do as bettering the world, but we are _killers_, _Iroquois_. There is no divine purpose in what we do, just self-determination. Shay may have been wrong in _that_ instance, Kesegowaase had not captured anyone, but he was not _wrong_. Three months later Monro was dead, and so was Kesegowaase. That was how it started.

"Shay personally led a bloody campaign to exterminate us. He stopped us at Louisbourg, he killed Adéwale, he undid our hold of the New York crime networks in the span of two weeks, assassinated Hope, and chased us all the way to the far north as we were looking for another Temple in the span of two years. Chevalier Vérendyre tried to buy us time at the cost of his own life. From '57 to '60, he had almost single-handedly undone twenty years' worth of careful work. Hope was found dead of her own poison, Kesegowaase slaughtered by fort rifles, the Chevalier was never heard from again. My single mistake had created a whirlwind of destruction, all because I would not listen to a distraught boy crippled with grief. I saw him for the first time at Signal Hill, in Canada. Liam and I had completed our expedition up north, and I had finally understood the damage that I had done."

Achilles' eyes were low, almost closed, his frame so sagged in the seat he looked like he might tip over. His voice was nearly a whisper now, barely audible as he struggled through his words. Nothing was left in him, but still he continued.

"Haytham would have killed me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton froze.

"Your father is a bloodthirsty man," Achilles said, eyes locked in memory. "Death means nothing to him, and he would have gladly killed me simply for being an Assassin. It was Shay who saved my life, said the New World they envision means nothing without mercy. It was Shay who exiled me to the homestead, never to leave. It was Shay who said I should pass word to the other Mentors to stop their search for Temples. And then, Haytham, in his version of mercy, shattered my leg."

And then, at last, silence.

…

_"... the Assassins are not nearly so perfect as you make them out to be. And Achilles? He has earned every derogative pejorative in the world for the damage he has caused. He is no victim, but a perpetrator, the blood on his hands is awesome, and you would say different if you know what I do. What Shay does."_

_"And who is Shay that you use him as a crutch to defend your argument?"_

_"Ask your precious spade."_

So many things burned in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind he wasn't sure where to start. He was startled to learn that Haytham's biting comments to Achilles were routed in more than faint truth, even more surprised to hear the story from Achilles' very mouth after so many years of resolute silence. He hurt to see the pain in the Old Man's face as Achilles used up every ounce of energy he had to recount the story. All of his flaws were laid bare, nothing was held back, Achilles spared nothing in explaining how the Brotherhood had been so decimated. Now Ratonhnhaké:ton understood the pain, the unbearable hesitation of training him.

Achilles was afraid. Afraid to create another Shay. Afraid to start another catastrophe.

_That_ was why he knew Ratonhnhaké:ton's anxiety so well. He, too, lived with it.

They were alike.

Where seeing the similarities of Connor and Haytham brought him trepidation, seeing the similarities of Connor and Achilles brought a curious sense of relief, of calm. They were connected.

"There is a saying among my people," he said softly, exhausted as Achilles and still perfectly still. "If a child falls in the rapids, the person who saves her shares in her life forever."

Achilles looked up. He looked decades older than sixty-eight.

"Achilles..." he licked his lips, a little uncertain of his thoughts, a little uncertain of his words. "I was drowning when I came here."

"And you are still doomed to drown, Connor," the Mentor said. "It will just be in a different river."

"But-"

"I thank you for the sentiment, child, but your gratitude is misplaced." Achilles struggled to stand, the effort taking twice as long as it usually did, reaching for his cane and swaying severely before he could steady himself. Limp more pronounced than ever, he hobbled out of his room and into the kitchen. Only then did Connor notice the late hour. "I still stand by what I said that day. Life is not a fairy tale and there are no happy endings. The Creed may give us purpose, but it does not give us solace. The great trap of nothing being true and everything being permitted is that so many believe it is license to do whatever they want with impunity. The wisdom behind Altaïr's words are lost to the young – like you, like Shay, like so many others – and it takes tragedy for them to learn the true meaning of the phrase. Some are lucky that they only lose their family. Others will lose entire nations, and still others never learn, and they are the ones who have to die. There is no divine presence in our work, Connor, and the sooner you realize that the sooner you can begin to really grow."

"You still do not think Iottsitíson guided me to you?"

"Child, I never doubted _her_," Achilles said, stoking the hearth and grabbing a frying pan to begin cooking. "I doubt her intentions. You think she only concerns herself with the safety of your people, but time and again we have learned that Those Who Came Before are just as flawed as we are, just as selfish, just as barbaric, just as cruel. But humanity is doomed to repeat their mistakes over and over, and that's what I'm trying to tell you. Your ideals, Connor, no matter how noble, how selfless, will destroy you as they destroyed me. It will either kill or drive away everyone close to you, and you will end your days alone. If I truly saved you from the rapids, then I pity you for the life I have given you, because I know that life intimately well, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"But..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say, reaching out and touching Achilles shoulder. The old man looked up, hand on the kettle, now almost hot enough to pour tea. "But... the Templars... now their hold is weakened. They cannot cause pain as they once did, which makes me believe there's a chance for peace. Ending the war would end the suffering, would it not? Imagine what might be accomplished if we were to unite."

Achilles's mouth pressed into a dark frown, dull eyes slowly sharpening, back straightening even with no energy to do so.

"Why the change of heart?" he asked. "You've always been so adamant that the Stone Coats be swept off the earth. Where is this coming from?"

Connor said nothing, turning away, wondering how he could explain everything. Anything.

Achilles was always skilled at reading him however, and his face slacked with slow-dawning surprise. "You've met your father, haven't you?" It was not totally a question.

Irrationally, Connor felt the need to defend himself. "I do not claim to trust the man - or even like him. Much has happened between he and I, much I do not understand. His cruelty I have seen for myself, his dedication to the Templars complete and unshakable. He said... He said..." his words ran out, uncertain where to start, how to articulate everything that happened to him in the last four months.

"Fanorora," Achilles said, pouring his tea and leaving a cup out for Connor. The young native poured himself a cup, stepping around the Old Man in the narrow hall and pulling out the game board and setting up the pieces. The afternoon sun was nearly gone, evening was approaching, so long they had talked, and Ratonhnhaké:ton still had so much to say.

In twenty minutes they were deep in the game, pondering moves and distracting Ratonhnhaké:ton's muddle thoughts enough that he could begin to describe what happened since meeting his father: their tense introduction, the callous treatment of life at Haytham's hands, the long debates on philosophy, the pieces he learned of Edward Kenway, someone named Jenny, Order and Purpose, the chase to the Caribbean, and the ugly brutality of Church's death. Other things bled through, too, the unnerving similarity of their personalities, the fear that Ratonhnhaké:ton would turn into him and kill people so senselessly, the confusion of how his _ista_ could love a man, the long list of complicated emotions that he felt whenever thinking about him.

Two hours later Achilles once more beat him, and he gave a long, thoughtful hum in his throat.

"You are right," he said. "The two of you are remarkably similar."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrank at the very thought.

Achilles stared at one of Fanorora chips, dancing it around his fingers slightly, eyes looking at nothing. "If what he said is true, he lost his father around the same age you lost your mother. That kind of damage is irrevocable, it warps a body in different ways. You, for example, have spent your days afraid for your people and desperate to protect them from more harm. You cling to those close to you for fear of losing more. Haytham, it would seem, has done the opposite. He holds everyone at arm's length to prevent being hurt again. You were blessed to look outward, he cursed to look inward. But do not think similarity is as sameness. It is not." His eyes hardened. "Seeing similarity in him will make you still your blade, make you doubt killing him. Push it away, understand that even if you are similar _he_ could and eventually _will_ kill you without so much as a second thought."

"But he has lost so many of his lieutenants," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, leaning over the board slightly. "He is in no position to take such a chance, and that grants us the opening of ending the war. Our goals are aligned, at least so far as the independence of the Colonies is concerned. He makes a point about Washington and those who back him. I have heard much talk of freedom and equality, but it seems one must be a landed white man to benefit. What of someone like me? Or you? What role for us in this new world? Is my father right, then?"

"It is seductive," Achilles granted. "You have to ask yourself, however, if what Haytham plans for these Colonies is the independence you and the settlers have been seeking. Freedom from England and freedom are two different things, Haytham would supplant one regent for another, and is that any better? He may sincerely care for the wellbeing of this fledgling nation, but will his successor? Or the successor after him? Of the one after _him_? The trap of monarchy is the requirement of admiration for the people you govern, an understanding of them, and history has shown repeatedly that such an affection is very hard when the life of a regent is so drastically different from that of his or her people."

"And he continues to defend Charles Lee - the man who murdered my mother and burned my village," Ratonhnhaké:ton added. "There is so much I must consider and so little time in which to do it. But I would be remiss to ignore this opportunity."

The Old Man shrugged. "Haytham may listen," he conceded. "But will he understand? And even if he does, will he agree?"

"Even he must admit that we achieve more together than we do alone."

What little energy Achilles had accumulated immediately left him with those words. His next words were lethargic, defeated.

"It's late, Connor; high time for an old man to go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

The next two days were filled with heavy silence. The long discussions of Haytham and Shay had left both of them emotionally drained and exhausted, and conversations were limited to basic housework just because neither could handle anything more profound. Most of Connor's recruits were out gathering intelligence and would likely be back by the end of the month. Only Dobby was still around, because she had broken an arm while Connor was away, and was spending her time resting and training in what several considered the impossible tasks of mastering reading and writing. Connor spent some time with her, glad to be in the numbing task of helping her with reading, since he didn't have to think about the revelations, his emotional knots, or anything beyond the simple words on the page.

"Are ye sure ye're alright, Connor?" Dobby asked one evening. "Ye're a fair bit quieter than usual."

"I..." Connor shook his head. "My journey was more difficult than I anticipated and I am still trying to understand everything that has transpired."

Dobby gave a soft, sad smile, and a nod. "Now that I can understand," she said softly. "Near on twenty-five years ago, when all the other urchins were startin' to notice..." she gestured to her ample bust. "Well, some who didn't know me thought that a street girl was meant for one thing and one thing only."

Connor wrinkled his brow, uncertain what she meant.

Dobby gave a small laugh. "Oh Connor," she said, "I forget ye have a higher value on just about everything compared to a normal man. Those boys thought I was a prostitute."

"How does the white man find so little value in half their population," Connor muttered.

Dobby's smile was bright and proud. "'s part o' why I joined ye. To find people like ye, the other recruits, to know that they see me as more than me breasts, well that's worth joinin'." She winked slyly. "Ye're not bad on the eyes either," she said coyly.

Connor blushed, despite himself.

"Anyway, back to me tale of woe," Dobby sipped her cup of tea and leaned back in her chair. "I understood back then that men looked at girls for just the part between the legs. But I didn't understand that men thought they had a right to it if ye were just a prostitute. Since I wasn't a prostitute, I didn't think I'd face any trouble."

Seeing where this story was going, Connor reached out and held Dobby's hand, the only support he could give.

"There I was, walkin' around, not realizin' that just bein' a girl was a walkin' advertisement," Dobby stared into her tea. "Well, ye get the idea. I was fast back then, just like now, but he was _strong_. I never expected him, because he was my friend. We'd done some jobs together. But he said he'd worked with me long enough and it was time to put up, that I _owed_ him after all he'd done for me. Once he had a hold, I couldn't break free. But that wasn't the worst part."

Connor squeezed her hand. "The rape I could deal with," she said softly. "Lesson learned, I was more observant, more distrustful, and got good at talkin' down idiots that thought I was a free fare by puttin' a knife to their throats. But the part that needed the most understandin' o' what happened by far was the baby."

"He impregnated you," Connor said softly, sadness and anger welling in him at what sort of demon could believe that simply helping a woman was enough to demand sex? One helped someone because one wanted to help, not to get something in return.

Dobby nodded. "I didn't understand the cycle. Oh I knew I bled once a month, but I didn't _understand_. When I stopped bleedin', I didn't know why, and I couldn't exactly afford to go to a doctor. Ended up visitin' a brothel just to be able to ask questions. Learned more than I ever cared to."

"No doubt," Connor replied. "I wish I could have been there for you. Or that you at least had someone you trusted to go to."

Dobby shrugged. "Life on the streets doesn't lead to trust, as I learned the hard way."

"The child?"

Dobby continued to stare at her tea, eyes shining brightly. "One of the things they explained in the brothel was a way to... abort the baby. But it risked ye're own life. I wanted to live but I didn't want that baby. Even if he'd been my friend, I wanted nothin' to do with him after that. I never wanted his child, I never wanted his attention in _that_ way."

"Did you... stop the pregnancy?" Connor asked softly.

"Never had the chance. All the stress made me miscarry. Don't know how I woulda chosen." Dobby said, still staring at her tea. Then she closed her eyes and let a pair of tears fall. Then she wiped here eyes and heaved a sigh. "Took me quite a few years to get the understandin' part down," she said at last. "Whatever ye faced, Connor, it'll take ye _years_ to understand it all. Don't go tryin' to understand it all at once. It'll just hurt more. A little bit at a time? Ye'll make peace with it."

"Thank you for your wisdom, Dobby."

She gave a warm chuckle, standing to start picking up her teacup. "How is it a man like you has no wife?"

Connor sighed.

Several of the homesteaders came up to the manor after seeing Connor once more doing his morning runs. Catherine came up and insisted on taking almost all of Connor's clothes to launder since, "Who knows when you last washed them with how long you've been gone!" and Warren pulled up with a wagon of extra food, since there was now "an extra mouth to feed" and even Ellen came up, to see if her clothes for Connor still fit, and offering to take in or pull out whatever didn't fit to her precise eye.

When Big Dave came limping up, however, winded from how the hill had made his leg ache, he wasn't checking in but instead he brought a box.

They sat in the study, Dave grateful to sit down after the trek up the hill. "Thanks for letting me sit," Dave said, his box resting gently on his lap.

"The walk up the hill was clearly difficult," Connor replied. "Of course you may rest." Connor settled himself in a chair. "Do you need a cane?"

Dave gave one of his large laughs. "Too stubborn for one. Still think I can walk around without one. Basically can, especially in my smithy. But longer treks and hills seem to be my downfall. Walking Miss Ellen to church leaves me panting in the pew, but going downhill is always easier than going uphill. I do fine."

"Knowing that such a distance would be so difficult, what has brought you here?"

Big Dave smiled brightly. "Connor, I was wondering... You still use that stone hatchet of yours?"

"My _tamahac_?"

Dave nodded.

"I have had it since I left my village," Connor replied. "I made it myself when I left, and it has seen me through many battles, including freeing you." Both had their hands ghost up to their necks, remembering the shared bruises they had. For Connor, he would always think of Dave being dragged by the neck, and remember his time in the prison. His neck was now protected by the necklace that Oiá:ner gave him, but he still remembered.

Dave nodded. "Maybe it has too much sentimental value, but..." Dave trailed off, looking to the box, "I wanted to thank you. You and the town... you all rallied to keep me here, even though I was a coward. A Stone Coat, as you called it. I've been able to give back to everyone but you. I didn't know how till I realized your little hatchet was still stone."

Carefully, he opened the lid of the box, and Connor felt his jaw drop. Inside was a _tamahac_, but instead of stone bound in wood, it was cold iron, shaped in the stylized arrow of the Assassins.

"I spoke to Achilles a lot, and he helped a little with the design. Lance had received some black ironwood from Florida, which he assures me is _very_ difficult to work with because it's so hard. I've never done hatchets before, so I had to be careful to get the balance right..."

Connor reached into the box, fingers brushing against the soft cotton that Ellen must have sewn, and pulled the _tamahac_ out of its shaped enclosure, feeling the weight and balance. It was lighter than his, but he could _feel_ the strength in it. Dave was talking about care and maintenance, making sure it was oiled and avoided rain, but Connor was already standing, stepping to the open space in front of the desk and testing certain forms and stances with it, adjusting for the lighter weight, the centered balance, _feeling_ the time and effort that Lance and Dave both had put into a _tamahac_ without understanding how much it meant to Connor.

"_Niawen'kó:wa_," Connor said with gravitas. "I cannot thank you enough." He tossed the _tamahac_ in the air and caught it with ease, repeating the process as he started to memorize the feel. "My village is very isolated, even among the Haudenosaunee,_ and trade with settlers is rare__._ I never even thought that a different kind of _tamahac_ could exist." And he should have, seeing the axes that Godfrey and Terry wielded.

"This is _my_ thanks, Connor," Big Dave said, standing. Connor stopped tossing his new _tamahac_ as Dave limped over and put a massive hand on his shoulder. "In a way, it's thanks from a lot of people. You found us, offered help with no thought of yourself, and just keep helping. You're an inspiration, Connor. And you deserve a lot more than just a little hatchet."

For the first time in several heavy days, Connor felt light, a grateful smile blossoming on his face, and his chest empty of anxiety and worry.

Lyle visited later that day, with a determined look on his face and when Connor answered the door, Lyle reached out and grabbed him and pulled him down the hill to talk.

"Connor, forgive my brusqueness."

"It is fine," Connor replied, puzzled. "How may I help?"

Lyle stood, arms crossed, staring down at the grass and undergrowth, before he shook his head. "Achilles had a bad winter, Connor," he said, looking Connor straight in the eye. "A _bad_ winter. I just about lived here for the entirety of February."

And suddenly, the ground dropped out from Connor's feet and he was in freefall.

He had known that Achilles didn't look well, that he had looked very old and frail the last few days, but Connor had attributed that to the heavy conversation they'd had and old memories of failure being brought up. But this had been the second time that Connor had arrived and Achilles had not been at the door to greet him as he always was.

Jaw down, color draining, Connor turned to stalk back up to the manor and start taking better care of Achilles when Lyle reached out and grabbed Connor again.

"He doesn't want you to know."

"_What_?"

Lyle sighed, pulled off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's sixty-eight, Connor. God knows he's one of the healthiest men I've ever seen at that age, but I think something from his past is eating at him. Either he stressed himself too much when he was younger, or something is stressing him now," and Lyle looked firmly at Connor, "either way, his body is starting to weaken."

"How long..." Connor said, staring up to the manor, "Is there nothing I can..."

Lyle let out a heavy sympathetic sigh. "All men die, Connor. There's no avoiding it." He rubbed his eyes again. "There is much about the body that we just don't know. Doctors are only just beginning to share information, it's why I have so many journals arriving all the time, to see what others have observed and learn from it. From what I've seen, Achilles's heart is getting weak. From what, I can't say, but stress will _not_ help. He needs rest. Whether he has years or decades, I'm not sure. I just don't know."

Connor frowned. The best way to avoid stress would be for Achilles to not have to deal with the Assassins, but there was no way the Old Man wouldn't be involved. The same for rest, when there were still recruits to train while Connor was away. He would need to completely rearrange how training was done, without the Achilles realizing what he was doing. The Old Man was too stubborn otherwise.

"The hardest part," Lyle continued, "is that his weak heart is making him susceptible to pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?"

"A build up of mucus in the lungs," Lyle explained. "That's why I was here for February. When the weather gets cold, he's at a greater risk, and his lungs might end up drowning if the case gets too severe."

That settled it for Connor. His winters would now be spent at the homestead. Anything that required the Assassins out in the colonies... the states, he could send his recruits to. They were Assassins now. They could handle it, as he had. And they would support each other, where Connor had started alone.

"I will look after him."

Lyle stared long and hard at Connor then nodded. "He worries after you," the doctor said softly. "You are the only family he has."

That bit deeply into Connor, and all the issues he had with his father, and the heavy weight of what he'd learned of Achilles's time as Mentor.

"I _will_ be here for him."

Lyle offered a tired, wan smile. "I know you will be. Thank you, Connor. Achilles means too much to all of us to lose him without a fight."

Suddenly Connor realized that he alone wasn't the only one affected by the Old Man. By interviewing every new homesteader, Achilles knew everyone in the small growing village, he dealt with things while Connor was away. In many ways, Achilles was the _roiá:ner_, the chief, of the village, despite how prickly he was. Connor was determined. Determined that he would keep Achilles alive. Not just for himself, but for everyone in the village.

By the following week, the rest of Connor's recruits had started to filter in and Connor solemnly sat them down and explained the situation. They were all eager to help in any way they could, with the same grim determination that Connor felt burning within him. They all sat around the fire and quietly discussed ways to relieve some of the stress.

"What we need to do is distribute ourselves," Connor said softly. "Duncan, I know your contacts in Boston have disappeared after the siege three years ago, but can you establish a network again?"

Duncan chuckled. "That'll take a few days in the pubs, but I guarantee ye I'll be known again."

"Then consider Boston your assignment. You'll keep an eye on the city, look out for people who are taking advantage and are Templars," Connor said. "If you find any who might be of value there, send them here and we will start to train them and send them back to you in Boston. Dobby, you will do the same in New York. You still have your contacts?"

"Assumin' the British haven't conscripted everythin', I think that shouldn't be a problem." The woman gave a wry grin. "Listenin' in on all those Brits might be an advantage. As well as keepin' an eye out for bullies."

"Jaime, I think you should be in Philadelphia," Connor narrowed his eyes. "It's under British control like New York. But the bulk of the army is wintering there at the moment, so be careful establishing yourself."

"That won't be a problem," Jaime replied. "No one ever pays attention to an extra doctor in the army." He gave a humorless laugh. "And if they're keeping their quarters and city as filthy as they have New York, I'll be plenty busy."

"Stephane, you'll be in Albany," Connor continued. "It is on the Hudson between the British controlled Canada and British controlled New York. The British tried to conquer the Hudson River already to cut off New England from the rest of the colonies, they may try again, so be careful as well."

"_Pas de problem_," Stephane scoffed.

"Clipper, Jacob, you will be staying here. As the others send recruits, you will help with training them. Achilles will be unable to stay out of training, but with you two teaching fighting, climbing, stealth, and hunting, that will leave him for philosophy, reading and writing, which will not be as taxing."

Connor looked at the map once more. "Be careful everyone. A war is still going on. The Templar's hold is weakened, but not broken. A bear injured is more dangerous than a bear alone."

"We heard ye the first time," Duncan replied lightly. "We'll be stayin' in contact with ye and each other. Support's only a mail delivery away."

Dobby leaned onto Stephane. "We'll go to New York together," she giggled. "I'll show ye some o' the sites, then kick ye on ye're way to Albany."

"I'll go with you as well," Jaime said. "Then I'll head to Philadelphia."

Clipper looked around. "Y'all sure I c'n be a good teacher?"

Jacob gave a loud guffaw. "I vill knock heads if any don't listen to you."

Achilles was staring at them with heavy suspicion when Connor brought up their plan at dinner, all the Assassins sitting around the dining room table. But Connor argued logic, needing eyes further out in the colonies, keeping watch that no soldiers started abusing their authority, British or Patriot. They may know where Lee was, sadly with Washington, no one knew where Haytham was after they had marooned him on Martinique. Connor regretted that decision, partly for not knowing where he was, partly because of the gnarled mess of emotions that his father brought forth, and for so many nuanced reasons he didn't even try to examine them at that moment, and instead presented the simple facts for needed a new set up for all their Assassins.

"What about the southern colonies?" Achilles asked, a gray brow raised.

"Aveline and Gérald can help. We don't have enough Assassins to spread so far from the homestead, but they have a better foundation in Louisiana and can send help to places like Charleston, Richmond, or Raleigh."

Question after question Achilles asked, dissecting their plan, interrogating everyone and their plans on how to set up bureaus in their various cities, particularly of Stephane and Jaime, who'd never been to their respective cities before. The inquires continued well after dinner and late into the night, and Connor was slowly becoming certain that Achilles suspected that they'd found out about his health, but finally, the Old Man sat back with a heavy sigh.

"It's not a bad idea. I'd rather have another year or two with you, but you are right that time is of the essence. And aimless soldiers can be worse than Templars." Achilles only nodded. "You've made some good plans for this doomed endeavor of yours, so you might as well get to it."

They didn't burst into cheers, that wasn't really in character for any of them, but there were plenty of smiles and chests filling with pride. It took another two days to start gathering supplies, and Connor headed into town to see Ellen about a dress that Dobby had ordered that might come in handy to getting into higher society.

Connor was surprised, however, to find Lyle with Ellen, some sort of trumpet like device going from his ear to her back.

"Another deep breath, Ellen, take as much air as you can," Lyle quietly said.

She did so and Lyle frowned heavily. "Your lung capacity has shrunk from last year. You really _need_ to stop that corn-cob pipe of yours. It's the only thing that I can think of that might shrink your lungs like this."

Ellen frowned right back. "Unless you can _prove_ that it's my pipe, Doctor, I'm not giving up the only thing that can calm my nerves."

It sounded like they'd made this argument before.

"And if your lungs shrink to the point where you can't breathe?"

"Well it will be too late then."

"That's exactly my point."

"I'm still waiting for proof, Doctor."

Lyle let out a long and heavy sigh. "You won't have enough breath to go chasing after Marie."

"She's a big girl. She can take care of herself, and if she can't, she knows when to get help." There was a flicker in her eyes, and Connor knew that she was thinking about Marie getting help after Ellen had been beaten.

Lyle frowned. "Can you at least cut it down to two smokes a day?"

"No proof, no promises."

Lyle pursed his lips, but said no more, putting his instruments away. "Very well," he said softly, but politely. "Contact me if the shortness of breath gets worse."

"I'm not short of breath, Doctor."

"Not yet."

"Ah, Connor!" Ellen turned, surprised to see Connor standing there. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I did not wish to intrude."

"Looking for that dress Dobby ordered?"

"Yes."

"Well, come on then."

Both Achilles and Connor watched the four recruits leave from the door, Connor silently choosing to continue Achilles's tradition of being at the door when his Assassins left and returned. Clipper and Jacob also watched, from the study, feeling the weight of the change of things, knowing that those leaving would likely not be back for anything but small bursts. That the cities they were going to would be permanent homes as they set up their bureaus and started making their network spread.

Achilles let out a heavy sigh once they were gone, before limping back into the home quietly to stare at the covered painting and the place it was meant for over the fireplace.

Connor did not wish to stay, the weight of the home at the moment too much, and his own anxiety on whether or not this was a right decision roiling in his chest. So he took off to the trees, focusing on leaping from branch to branch to stump, digging his fingers into sap to get a better grip and to just be numb for a while.

Once he was tired, he dropped down to an empty clearing that the Freemans often used for their cattle. Wiping the June sweat from his brow, he took a deep warm breath. It was time to walk back and start talking to Jacob and Clipper on what sort of training routines they would use with recruits, and for Connor to refine some of their techniques in case he wasn't around to help with the training. He walked the cattle path, heading to the farm, and waved hello to Warren who was stalking the fields, looking at every stalk and vine and for any sign of pestilence. His dog was yipping, chasing anything in the field until Warren whistled and it returned.

Connor approached the back of the farmhouse and wiped the sweat from his face again.

"Prudence, I do _not_ know what to do about it;" came a soft voice from the porch, "I mean, his company is very pleasant!"

Prudence's soft voice replied, "You must be cautious, Ellen," she said, and it sounded like she was pouring tea. "A woman's reputation is of such importance. It's almost impossible to recover once lost. If a woman doesn't have her virginity, she's nothing more than a prostitute." There was a short pause. "Does he consider such things?"

"Yes, he does!" Ellen replied enthusiastically. "Because he is a gentleman. That is what he is. A perfect gentleman," she sighed contentedly. Then, almost conspiratorially, she whispered, "Let me just tell you, if he were interested in me I would not turn him out."

"Ellen!"

"I can not believe I just said that!" Ellen gave a small squeal.

"_Ellen_!" Prudence hissed. "We have farmhands, people come to order deliveries! Someone might hear!"

"I do not care!" she declared.

Connor angled his path to the other side of the farmhouse, so that he wouldn't be seen to be eavesdropping, even though he didn't intend to.

"Before I met Warren, I was courted by a man," Prudence continued. "A man for whom I felt affection. Then I found out his intentions were not at all honorable. And that he was only after me to claim my purity."

"Prudence! You must tell me, what happened?"

"What I will tell you is that I was lucky to escape with my honor intact," Prudence shuddered, her teacup rattling. "I was lucky. Several saw me screaming 'no,' so they believed me to still be pure when he was pulled away. But I left that island soon after. Then I met Warren."

"Yes... Well..." Ellen sighed heavily. "Honor. It is a bit of a luxury. A divorcee. Everyone here knows why I left, but that doesn't change the stain of being divorced. I'm used goods, regardless, and one need look no further than Marie to see that."

"I don't think he sees you that way..."

Connor continued on, far enough away to finally block out what was clearly a private conversation. It was very heartening to see that Prudence and Ellen had bonded, and that Ellen finally had a connection after being so isolated and abused for so long. Idly, he wondered what man had caught Ellen's eye and was being so gentlemanly towards her, but that wasn't his business, so he returned his mind to what he would discuss with Jacob and Clipper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, there are consequences to events in the game. Actually wait, we'll save that for later. First: because all of the Biddle missions were handled expressly by Faulkner in the fic (which makes much more sense than 13-something Connor starting the chase), it seemed appropriate to make Falkner be the one to have the "memory corridor" conversation. Also, did anyone else ever enjoy coming across Dr. Lyle giving someone a check up - the ones we knew the most was him checking Ellen's lungs, and she sometimes pulls out a pipe for a smoke - exceedingly rare for women of the time. He also give Lance a checkup where he prescribes alcohol, but we have our own suspicious about Lance, so... Also-also, One of the best side conversations we ever came across on the homestead was Ellen and Prudence talking about men, and it forever solidified our headcannon that they are besties. I wonder who Ellen fancies so... :P
> 
> But really, this fic is the natural consequence of what happened when Connor ran away. Achilles isn't as young as he used to be and intense fights with dramatic exits won't just bounce off him like they would, say, when Rogue began. Similarly, long intense discussions about deeply painful things he's held inside for years isn't easy for him. Note that this is the first time Connor is still without anything resembling effort. He's grown again for all his encounters, and he finally comes to understand just how fallible the people around him are. His own personal journey may be divine, but he can no longer hold the Assassins on that same pedestal, because Achilles was wrong to turn Shay away when he was lost in grief, and he was wrong about other things as well, no matter how justified he and Keseegowasee might have been. Though we didn't get into it, we assume they also killed settlers who were determined to scalp natives for profit and bloodshed, willing to be bloody third parties if it kept the opposing sides from declaring war left right and center.
> 
> Note that Achilles can't even talk about how he had lost his family. Some hurts just can't be touched.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter serves as an epilogue for the Church assassination.
> 
> Next chapter: Monmouth. Poor Connor can't get a break...


	24. Death of A Best Friend

By the end of the week, Connor was surprised to have a letter arrive at the manor that wasn't from Sam Adams or the Sons of Liberty. The letter was addressed to _Connor Kenway, Rockport, Massachusetts_. And Connor pursed his lips, already knowing who the letter was from. Everyone who knew him only knew him as Connor, and on the rare instances he required a last name, he would say Davenport if push came to shove. And from what he'd learned of his father, as he'd told the Commander's wife, he would likely never claim the Kenway name as he associated it with cruelty and brutality.

Connor sat heavily in front of Achilles's desk, the Old Man looking over some ledgers, as Connor leaned forward and took the letter opener.

_Son,_

_I must commend you on your fortitude. You marooned me without so much as a look back, yet had the mercy to ensure I was picked up within the week. You have made your point. You will not be manipulated or entrapped, and will do things your own way. I see that. Some part of me must admit to a fair amount of pride at your hold on your convictions, even if what you believe is nothing but naive ideals that will never come to pass with humanity as it is._

_I can't help but wonder, if perhaps we should work together. While our ultimate goals for the world are diametrically opposed, we both see an opportunity in this fledgling nation that's arisen. While you may have started this war, I wish to help you finish it. Perhaps we might meet in New York, and discuss how to properly route the British so that this baby nation might start to flourish. I shall be at the listed coffee house every Saturday until the summer campaign starts, if you wish to join me._

_The choice is yours._

_Your father,_

_Haytham_

Connor sat back heavily and let out a long sigh. Achilles had been watching him and took the letter to read as well. Then he, too, sat back with a long sigh.

"I assume you're off to find him? To take him up on this proposition of his?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton sat in the silence, letting it stretch out, reaching for stillness to try and see what the best course of action would be when he'd only just started dealing with the tangled mess of feelings and emotions that the last encounter with his father had left him. But he had to admit to constant curiosity. His father was brutal, cruel, but why? He refused to believe his _ista_ would have fallen for someone so harsh, and given how she had kept his father's journals, he doubted his father had forced her in any way.

So why? What had made Haytham Kenway the bitter, cruel person he was?

Ratonhnhaké:ton doubted he'd ever get a straight answer. Even this letter, for all that he claimed to no longer manipulate Connor, _was_, itself a calculated manipulation to get Ratonhnhaké:ton to join him. Should he refuse and prove he wouldn't fall to the manipulation, or was that what Haytham wanted?

His thoughts in circles, Ratonhnhaké:ton took another deep breath. The only way to learn was to confront the problem head on.

"Yes," he said softly. "I will ride for New York to see what might be done."

"He wants you there," Achilles said. "He'll try to get you to see things his way, to do things his way. Any curiosity he has is secondary to what he can get from you because you're a resource for him. You've cut his network to pieces, so he'll instead try to use _your_ network that you've started to set up."

"Very true," Connor nodded. "But I will not be going in blind. Honestly, I do not think there is anything that he can do to make me call him family, or even consider everything he has to say. But by being British, he can access areas that neither I, nor Dobby, nor other Assassins have access to yet."

"So you propose to use him as he is trying to use you?"

"No, I propose seeing what he has to say and going from there. I do not yet know if this bodes ill or not. But the only way to know is to go." Connor rubbed at his face. "After my last encounter, I will be cautious, and more importantly, prepared."

Achilles gave him a long, hard look before retiring to his room.

* * *

Connor arrived in New York on a hot June day, the stench of the city and the decay revolting, as the rotting wound of the burnt out west side remained untouched, the British unwilling to invest or fix anything in case they lost the war. Connor spent his time first finding and talking with Dobby. She'd been there for less than a month and was still establishing the foundations of her network when Connor arrived.

"Y'arrived earlier than I ever thought," she said brightly, letting him in to her home, which hadn't been taken over by the British because of how far north it was in the city and thus, away from the main posts of command. "I've barely started."

"I am here for different reasons," Connor said solemnly. "I have been... invited by my father. And I will be meeting him."

Dobby let out a low whistle, her face dropping to a grim line. "What do ye need me to do?"

"Observe. Do not interfere. I will be around the city, but I will avoid contact with you. I do not wish him to know of you and the bureau you're building. Or use you to find any of the others."

Dobby nodded solemnly. "Won't be a problem," she said. "Ye won't even notice I'm nearby."

Connor nodded, then returned to the southern tip of the island to book a room. He spent the week observing the coffee house, its clientele, which was distinctly wealthier than the other coffee houses he'd visited, and noticed how close it was to the fort.

Originally called Fort Amsterdam (among many other names depending who controlled it), Fort George had started as a Dutch fort back in 1625 when the Dutch had founded New York. Located on the southern tip of the island, facing the Hudson River and overlooking the Upper Bay, it was one of the few structures on the western part of New York that was spared from the Great Fire, it's massive hundred and fifty-year old thick stone walls preventing the fire from leaping to the structures within or beyond, leaving the buildings immediately south of the fort also preserved after the fire. It did not preserve, however, the Patriot shelling when the war first started, and the north end of the fort still showed the damage it had taken. Naturally, being such a heavily fortified position with a good view of the Hudson and the Bay, it was no surprise that it was currently a British stronghold of the remaining soldiers that hadn't joined General Howe as he'd marched across New Jersey and taken Philadelphia the previous summer.

Of course, the British had changed commanders again. General Gage, who had also been governor of Massachusetts had been replaced by General Howe after losing Boston, and General Howe, now several years in the war, had been replaced by General Clinton in hopes that fresh blood would bring a swifter end to what was becoming a drawn out war. Listening to the soldiers in the street showed that many preferred the current second in command, General Cornwallis, as a more practical choice, but practical, the soldiers agreed, didn't mean anything back in London where it was about wooing support. Many of the British were surprised that the war had been going on for so long. Everyone agreed that the American forces were pathetic, had retreated and dissolved more than won any battles, and were nothing but beggars holding muskets with no clue what to do. But the fact that the war was _still_ ongoing was unfathomable for several. Just as the American forces were about to be utterly quashed, they just melted away. Several soldiers were amazed that American forces, who were clearly inferior, were still fighting, and it mystified them how they had won _any_ battles at all.

Connor did not like how close this coffee house was to such a core of British control. Even if most of the British forces were holding Philadelphia, there were too many soldiers around for Connor to be completely comfortable. If Haytham truly wanted to route the British, why meet so blatantly _in front_ of the British?

So Thursday and Friday, Connor spent at the coffee house, hidden in the shadows, sipping coffee or hot chocolate or ordering a plate of food, and just observed, completely hidden from most of the room. Thus, Saturday, Connor was able to observe his _raké:ni_ enter proudly, greet his server like an old friend, and settle in with his tea. Connor watched as people came and sat with Haytham, discussions of British and Loyalist plans, and Connor watched his father get progressively annoyed.

One man, bald middle-aged, and looking exhausted, was the latest to frustrate Haytham.

"We need to know what the Loyalists are planning if we're to put an end to this," Haytham hissed.

"I've _tried_!" the man replied, Cockney accent thick. "But the soldiers themselves are told nothing now. Only to await orders from above." The man glared at Haytham. "_Someone_'s been poking around so much that the officers are getting nervous."

Haytham ignored the slight. "Then keep _digging_. Come find me when you have something worth sharing."

Connor stood and on silent feet, approached behind Haytham.

"I find kindness more useful than intimidation," he said, taking a small measure of satisfaction that his father stiffened and whirled, clearly surprised to see Connor appearing behind him instead of through the door that Haytham was facing.

"Yes... Well..." Haytham gestured and Connor took a seat, eyeing his father carefully and this time prepared for the tricks and traps and manipulations. "We're so close to victory," Haytham muttered in near silence, still sitting rigidly and sipping his tea. "A few more well-placed attacks by the Patriots and we'll be able to put an end to this civil war and be rid of the Crown."

"What do you intend?"

Haytham grimaced, though barely. "Well nothing at the moment. Since we're completely in the dark."

Connor could not quite keep the edge of a smile off his face, "I thought the Templars had eyes and ears everywhere. How else can you control everyone's lives?"

The scowl Connor earned was not hidden, and very put-upon. "Oh we _did_," he replied archly. "Until you started cutting them off."

Connor's smile was broader, taking it as a compliment instead of an insult.

"Your contact said orders from above," Connor replied, sidestepping what would likely be a large, loud, lasting argument. "It tells us exactly what we need to do. Track down the Loyalist commanders here in New York, and if that does not work, we go to Philadelphia where the main body of soldiers is."

"Oh," Haytham's voice dripped sarcasm, "you expect to just walk up to the commanders and ask their plans? Your naiveté continues to astound me. And how do you even expect to find them? In case you haven't noticed, the officers have taken quite well to locking themselves away from the common public. To ignore the complaints of the citizenry if nothing else."

"And to avoid _you_," Connor replied calmly. "And if you think me so stupid as to just walk in and demand answers, you clearly know nothing. I will meet you here in two days, with the necessary knowledge of where the commanders will be and how we might approach."

"Oh, really?" Haytham growled with cynicism. "And how are you to do that? Anyone who spies a native will have the same reaction we found at that warehouse. How do you even get anything done?"

"I know how to hunt," Connor replied simply. "You do not." Standing, Connor left, anxious to get away from his father and the knotted emotions he always brought up. He felt that this encounter had gone better than the last, mostly because he was prepared emotionally and had a better understanding of how his father worked. But that didn't stop all the chaotic feelings and the less time with Haytham, the better.

He wound through the streets, knowing that his father was trying to follow him, and not very good at it. Dobby, however, was much better, and picked up on what Connor wanted. Since the Irish woman knew the streets of New York better than Connor did, he followed her lead and they easily lost Haytham. Dobby finally joined his side an hour later as they entered a tavern for an early dinner.

"Ye're not as tense as when ye were the last time ye returned from meetin' yer da," she said softly. "Better?"

Connor let out a sigh, feeling some of his tension bleeding off. "No," he replied. "I merely am prepared for him now. We must find the commanders who hide in Fort George, in order to learn the British plans and deliver them to Washington."

"And yer dear ol' da is _here_ for that and not with the commanders in Philadelphia?" Dobby scoffed. "Connor, ye must take the most after yer mother, because from what I've seen, yer da's an idiot."

He gave a wan smile, but pushed the comment aside. He did not wish to deal with his tangled web of feelings at the moment. "Can you do it?"

"T'won't be a problem," Dobby replied. "I was a good little errand-boy, and everyone knows it. And I was confidential, which means I was trusted. Now that people know I'm back, I'm gettin' work and it won't take much to put me in touch with the right folks."

"Can you do that in two days?"

Dobby blinked. "Ye don't do things by halves, ye know that right?"

Connor chuckled. "Can you?"

"I'll try," she said softly. "Stay here an' look after the place, will ye? A few orphans know I'll provide food once in a while and I don't want them thinkin' I up and abandoned 'em."

"Very well."

Two days later, Connor was once more hidden in Haytham's preferred coffee house, and when his father had once more sat down, Connor approached. "We have a time," he said, watching his father stiffen again.

"You really _must_ stop doing that," Haytham groused.

"I know how to hunt," Connor repeated. "You do not."

"And it is by this magic of hunting that you now have a time and place for a clandestine meeting of officers?" Haytham's sarcasm was strong.

"_Hén_," Connor said stoically, refusing to fall for the baited argument again. "It appears that the officers are paranoid about someone trying to find out information on them." He stared at his father.

Haytham merely raised an eyebrow.

Connor continued. "So to ensure secrecy and avoid eavesdroppers, several of the staff of the upper ranks are meeting in the ruins of Trinity Church tonight to pass on word and discuss possibilities before bringing all the information back to their commanders for a final decision."

"How serendipitous."

"If you do not wish to join, that is your choice," Connor replied, stood and left abruptly. If his father would not accept his help, then so be it. He could do this on his own. One of the staff members was for General Clinton, having ridden all the way from Philadelphia, and _that_ would be most useful to know what Clinton planned.

So, in the darkness of the night, Connor was perched up in the charred rafters, munching on some trail mix, having been in position since before sunset. The evening was finally cooling off the heat of the day, but the air remained muggy and uncomfortable, insects buzzing around the burnt half of New York as greenery was starting to grow in the building husks after being left alone by the British for two years. It was close to midnight when three officers came into the skeleton of the building. Once inside, with several curses and trips, a lantern was lit and Connor watched as the three sat around the lantern to start talking.

The discussion was long, going round and round in circles. It was clear that the main confrontation was where the bulk of the army was to go. Should it stay in Philadelphia and be reinforced by the troops in New York or should the army return to New York, the main base? Either way one of the cities would have to be abandoned back to the Americans, a concept that none could stomach. And round and round the discussion went.

From what he could tell, if Clinton was truly the general in charge, he'd do things his way and likely march the army back to New York, as his advocate was arguing.

A sharp sound sent everyone to silence, and a cloth quickly covered the lantern.

The officers remained completely silent, and then, Connor watched an arm snatch out and drag a bulky frame into the hollow church. The cloth was pulled off the lantern, and Connor let out a heavy sigh to see his father had been caught. His father knew _nothing_ of how to hunt.

"Well," one of the officers said. "Well, well, well. It seems we have the spy that has everyone in such a tizzy."

Haytham stood straight, perfectly presentable, and merely smiled. "A little help, Connor?" he called out.

There was silence, the officers looking around harshly, muskets still on Haytham.

"Connor?"

The officers started to chuckled, bragging about the prize they'd won.

With a heavy sigh, Connor silently climbed further down the husk and then leapt down, knocking two of the staff down at once, ramming their heads into the decaying floor as Haytham pulled his pistol to the aim at the last man.

"About time you arrived," Haytham smirked.

"You think me a pawn," Connor growled back. "I desire their information, nothing more. _You_ are the one who exposed yourself. I would have learned much and they would never have known."

"Well, now we may interrogate them."

"So that they may lie to us."

"Such a pessimist," Haytham said smugly. "You really do take after me."

"I was recently informed that I must take after my mother as you are, quote, 'an idiot'."

Haytham scoffed, but his attention had been lax, letting the last man that he had been watching slip further into the shadows and then away. Connor glared at his father as he continued to tie up the two he had felled.

Haytham let out an exasperated sigh. "Really?" he turned to Connor. "Well, you'd best get after him, then."

Connor refused to be manipulated. "You go," he replied. "I will watch the prisoners. It was your inattention that caused this."

"_No_," Haytham replied coldly and firmly. "_You_ do it."

"Why me?"

Haytham's eyes narrowed. "Because I said so! Now go! Before we lose _his_ information. We don't have time to argue!"

It was control and manipulation, and it was blatant. Haytham was using Connor's desire for information to _force_ him to go after the escaped aide, because he _knew_ Connor could not let him get away. And Connor could not out-wait his father in this. There was too much at stake.

So Connor took off, growling.

The man he was chasing was stumbling in the dark, the clouds passing over the nearly full moon making it difficult to see anything without much light. But it was clear that he was trying to run through the ruins east, towards the half of the city still intact, where there would be lanterns and people.

But Connor _could_ see with such little light. With the blessings of his Eagle Vision, and his considerable focus. It didn't take much to tackle the running officer in a dark alley, and a swift punch to the jaw left him dazed enough for Connor to tie his hands and drag him unerringly back through the dark and twisted remains of half of a city to the husk of the Trinity Church. Once the man was more aware of his surroundings, he started to tremble. "Don't take me back to _him_!"

"Move."

"Go to hell! Just let me go!"

"I said _move_," Connor shoved him forward and he tripped over a pile of fallen bricks.

As they approached Trinity Church, the man started begging. "Wait, wait! I'll tell you anything you want! Anything! Only don't make me go in there!"

"We just have some questions for you."

"That's Haytham Kenway! Cross that threshold and I'm a dead man!"

"There you are, Connor!" Haytham greeted, holding up the lantern. "I was worried you might have gotten lost... Come along, then!"

Connor scowled behind his hood, but merely brought in the officer he had caught.

In the shadows of the church, the two others that Connor had caught lay slumped against the remains of a wall. Connor sat the man in the center of the room, his back to his comrades, and the moon overhead finally peaked out from behind the clouds, providing additional light to see by.

Haytham remained poised and straight, walking around the rubble as if it were a palace rather than the corpse of a building. The man kept his eyes on Haytham, glancing nervously to Connor as if Connor were some sort of ally.

"What are the British planning?" Haytham asked coolly.

The man glanced back to Connor, but Connor merely stood stoically, holding his hands together. He wanted this information as well. If it took intimidation, so be it.

The officer shuddered. "To march from Philadelphia," he blurted. "That city's finished. New York's the key. It will double our numbers, push back the rebels."

Haytham nodded, and Connor had his suspicions confirmed. It was time to bring word to Washington.

"When do they begin?"

"June eighteenth," the man blubbered.

"I must warn Washington," Connor said.

"You see?" Haytham said to the man. "That wasn't so very difficult, now was it?"

"I've t-told you everything!" the man shouted, getting hysterical. "Now l-let me go!"

"Of course," Haytham replied, swiftly pulling out his sword and slicing the man's jugular, ignoring the quick spray of blood.

Connor stepped back in horror.

"The other two said the same," Haytham said blithely, pulling out a piece of cloth to clean his sword. "It must be true."

"You _killed_ him..." Connor growled. "You killed _all_ of them! Why?"

His father shrugged. "They'd have warned the Loyalists."

"You could have held them until the fight was done!"

"What?" Haytham shook his head, "And waste precious time and money on their care? What would be the point." He stalked by Connor. "They'd given up everything they knew."

"So you would kill them, and leave their children to wonder why their parents died, as you did with my grandfather?" Connor growled. "You would let other children be bereft of family as you were? As _I_ was? You would wish that same fate on others?"

Haytham paused, rigid, before he turned with a cold, arrogant look. "Better to learn how cold and cruel the world is when young, then to be betrayed by those you trust later," he spat back.

There was clearly a story to that, one that was perhaps at the core of why Haytham was the way he was. But his father would never share it, he held the world too far away from him to do so.

So Connor locked his jaw as his chest nearly burst with everything this brought up inside of him. Then he stalked past his father, holding his tongue until they were both mounted and riding away from the city.

Haytham attempted to speak with him as they rode southwest to Valley Forge, Connor did not reply.

"You Assassins burst in and kill people, do you not? I attempted your methods and you scorn me for it?

"You give me the silent treatment like a petulant child. Grow up, boy, the world won't change because you wish it.

"We must give this information to Charles, he'll know what to do with it."

And so on and so forth.

Finally, Connor decided to break his silence. "Did you rape my mother?"

That actually stopped Haytham cold, and he turned furious eyes to his son. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"My mother kept journals that I believe to be yours, lost when Charles Lee burned my village and killed my mother," Connor replied. "She must have had some feeling towards you, but you are so filled with hatred and contempt and arrogance, I do not see how you could have any feelings for my mother. You white men view everything as items to possess, even women. Was my mother another thing for you to own? Is that why she wouldn't speak of you, because you had raped her?"

"How could you _possibly_ think that I would _ever_..."

"You deflect the question yet again," Connor turned back to looking ahead. "I can only assume that you did."

"_I did no such thing_!" Haytham bellowed. "I wanted to _stay_, but she found out-"

Connor turned, brow raised. That had perhaps been the most honest Haytham had been, out of pure rage and anger, and he had cut himself off. Perhaps... perhaps now his father might finally speak of something truthfully. "Found out what?"

"That I had stretched the truth."

"That you lied."

"That I lied." Haytham let out a weary, pained sigh, slumping forward slightly. "I had promised her that I would kill a man. The wounds I gave him were enough to kill him, but days later. She found out it was days later and that I had not ensured his death. Your mother... she was honest in all things and she would never forgive any untruth from anyone." Haytham looked up to the sky, and Connor thought... imagined he saw his father's eyes were misty. "I knew your mother when I was... a softer man. Before the world sliced away the last of my father's teachings and informed me that there is no use in changing the world."

"If you do not even bother to try," Connor said softly, "then nothing will change."

Haytham scoffed, though that sounded more like a reflex than actual contempt.

Approaching Valley Forge, Connor had to admit some surprise that Washington was still there. It was June, yet the summer campaign had yet to start. The American forces were still "wintering" in the valley. But the pickets remembered Connor and happily waved him in, showing more skill than they had even the last time he'd been by, just over a month before.

Haytham wasn't quite so abrasive as he had been, but he still was cantankerous. "We should be sharing what we know with _Lee_, not Washington..."

"You seem to think I would favor him," Connor bit back, "But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is _wrong_ to compel obedience – whether to the British Crown or the Templar Cross. And I hope the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims." So many had died already. Connor acknowledged death, understood that those who refused to learn must die, and that the Americans were not just seeking freedom, but in doing so, they educated everyone who participated in the discussion. And by discussing and educating, people came to a consensus. The British lacked this under a king who always made the final decision. They truly were victims as well, they just didn't realize it yet.

None should be forced into anything. People must make their own decisions.

"You oppose tyranny. Injustice," Haytham replied heatedly. "These are just _symptoms_. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you _think_ I've been trying to show you the error of your way?"

Connor sent his eyes skyward, offering a prayer to Iottsitíson for patience, and growled back, "You have _said_ much, yes. But you have _shown_ me nothing of this. You have _shown_ cruelty and brutality. You have _not_ shown compassion or understanding."

Haytham gave a wide, arrogant, smug grin. "Then we'll have to remedy that then, won't we..."

His father was _impossible_!

But Haytham did seem impressed that Connor was granted such quick access to the Potts home where Washington and his commanders were staying.

Washington was in a small bedroom, crammed with beds and cots, sitting at a small desk, pouring over various letters, scratching at papers, and looking tired.

"Sir," Connor greeted.

Washington turned, surprised, and offered a tired smile. "Connor," he greeted. "Welcome back. I did not expect to see you again so soon."

"I wish to help."

Washington nodded. "Your help has been invaluable. And I see you brought a friend?"

Connor's lips thinned. "This is my father," he said softly, and watched as Washington glanced at Haytham and his straight back and hands clasped behind his back. Washington looked back to Connor with a great deal of understanding in his eyes, no doubt remembering the one time Connor had described his father.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to say you've found me dealing with Congress again," Washington, despite how tired he looked, seemed more positive than when Connor had first met the Commander. It seemed that wintering in Valley Forge had changed him as well as the army. Connor almost felt a quiet confidence from the large Virginian, and he couldn't quite help but smile as if dealing with Congress was but a minor inconvenience, instead of an exhausting argument. Washington stood and stretched, walking over to the window and leaning over the cot under it to look outside. "Yet despite my current predicament, I find that things are going well."

"That is because of who you are," Connor replied, joining Washington at the window and looking to the soldiers who were finally well fed, well clothed, and well trained. "You are a great man and a great leader. My people have a saying. 'The best chief is not the one who persuades people to his point of view. It is instead the one in whose presence most people find it easiest to arrive at the truth.' Your soldiers have found the truth. If Congress was in your presence, they would see it as well."

"Your faith in me is far too strong," Washington replied. "Appreciated, but too strong. I must make difficult decisions and I must sleep with them at night. And there are times where I fear that I simply have no good options."

"Then perhaps I can provide one," Connor said. "The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia. They march for New York."

Washington nodded. "My scouts had reported of Admiral Howe leaving with civilians and baggage. It's only a matter of time before Clinton follows his supplies. You tell me they head for New York. That gives me a direction. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."

"I would recommend Charles Lee to lead the attack," Haytham said from where he was leaning by the desk Washington had been sitting at. "He is a capable commander, a source of pride in this army," and the underlying _he's better than you_ was obvious to anyone, "and would do well against the British."

"He has only just been released _from_ the British," Connor replied, biting down on his feelings and not willing to get into an argument in front of the Commander. "He does not know this army yet, not having been away from it for two years."

"Charles worked within the British army for years," Haytham replied coolly. "He knows their tactics. Forgive me, Commander Washington, but that's more experience than you have had."

"I will never deny my own shortcomings," Washington replied. "But neither of you are enlisted in this army." Washington turned to Connor and gently placed a hand on his arm. "While I value your information, you're most admirable quality is that you let me fail or succeed with what you provide."

Connor shied from the touch, as he always did, but nodded. He would not bring it up again, and he understood that the Commander had heard his point.

"Very well," Washington nodded as well. "Martha will be expecting you at dinner again, once she learns you are here."

"I would best hide then," Connor replied lightly.

Washington smiled. "We'll be sending our wives home soon. Your timing is perfect. Once our families are safely on their way home, we can start making our way out of the Valley and start chasing the British."

Haytham was still looking at them with cold calculation as they left.

That night, Martha was quite the hostess and Connor stuck to the shadows to avoid the embarrassment that had happened last time. Dinner was wonderful, especially with proper supplies to cook proper food, and there was a buoyancy around the table. Charles Lee was there, to Connor's disgust, but he held himself back, knowing that here, surrounded by people, he would be unable to do anything. Haytham talked only once with Charles that Connor saw, but that meant nothing. He had lost track of his father during the afternoon, and Connor had no doubt that he had gone to see Lee. But despite the one moment of whispered conversation, Haytham kept his distance, glancing at Connor as if to point out the great sacrifice he was making to try and accommodate his wayward son.

Connor did not appreciate it in the slightest, but held his tongue.

Lafayette remained affable and friendly, and being so close to Connor's age, the young native had to admit that he enjoyed conversing with the French nobleman.

As dinner progressed however, Connor found himself standing outside by a stone wall with Washington, looking out at the camp, of men who were finally healthy, who were strong, and who were _ready_ to fight the British.

"Tell me," Haytham interrupted them, "I understand Commander, that you have an Iroquois name."

Washington blinked, turning. "Yes," he replied. "My great-grandfather was called Conotocaurious."

"Do you know what it means?"

"I do not," Washington replied. "A Seneca leader I worked with gave me the name, saying it was to honor my military heritage and ardor."

Connor frowned. _Conotocaurious_. "It is not easy to translate, but... He Who Destroys Villages."

Washington blinked. "I... had no idea," he said looking away. "I suppose it is..." he sighed, not finishing his sentence.

"I think you were going to say, appropriate?" Haytham said coldly, a viscous smile on his face. "After all, what's this?"

Washington looked, then paled, and lunged forward to grab it. "A _private_ correspondence!"

But Haytham stepped back and around, looking to the Commander gleefully. "Of course it is. Would you like to know what it says, Connor? It seems your good friend here has just ordered an attack on your village. Although that might be putting it mildly."

Washington grimaced. "We've been receiving reports of allied natives working with the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it. To _only_ the villages who have allied with the British."

Connor was numb. As the argument built between his father and the Commander, Connor only took the letter and read it, unable to believe it to be true.

_Orders of George Washington to General John Sullivan, at Head-Quarters_

_The Expedition you are appointed to command is to be directed against the hostile tribes of the Six Nations of Indians, with their associates and adherents. The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements, and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible. It will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more._ _I would recommend, that some post in the center of the Indian Country, should be occupied with all expedition, with a sufficient quantity of provisions whence parties should be detached to lay waste all the settlements around, with instructions to do it in the most effectual manner, that the country may not be merely overrun, but destroyed._ _But you will not by any means listen to any overture of peace before the total ruinment of their settlements is affected. Our future security will be in their inability to injure us and in the terror with which the severity of the chastisement they receive will inspire them._

Connor stared at the page, numb. He slumped against the stone wall, reading the lines over and over again. "Total destruction and devastation". "Ruin their crops" and "prevent their planting more". "In the most effectual manner" to not be "overrun but destroyed." There was to be no "overture of peace" only "total ruinment".

Suddenly Connor was six years old, watching his entire life fall apart in flames and blood. All the security he had built up since then, all of his work to prevent his people from being harmed, the progress he had felt he had achieved, his security was _gone_ and all that was left was the bubbling _anxiety_ and worry that his people would be safe.

The argument was continuing, and Haytham finally turned to Connor. "And so now you see what happens to this 'great man' when under duress," he said triumphantly. "He makes excuses, displaces blame. Does a great many things, in fact, except take responsibility."

Connor finally looked up and over to the Commander, whose face was twisted in pain and regret. _I must make difficult decisions and I must sleep with them at night_. Washington had no _right_ to feel pain and regret over this, to be sorry for the devastation he had caused with the stroke of a pen, he had no _right_ to still be so sympathetic after such a cold twisted knife was thrust into Ratonhnhaké:ton's very soul. He could not deal with either of them. He merely had to return to his village and warn his people.

"You see, Connor, that who you have such faith in isn't worthy of it," Haytham continued, and Washington offered no denials. Just hours earlier, he had said he would never deny his shortcomings and Ratonhnhaké:ton _burned_ at the sympathy at that.

"_Enough_!" he bellowed. He stood, anger and betrayal and anxiety warring within him, urging him to _act_. "Who did what and why must _wait_. My people come _first_."

Haytham smiled smugly. "Then let's be off."

"_No_!" Connor growled. "_You_ and I are _finished_."

Pure surprise sprouted on Haytham's face, and he _dared_ to look hurt. "Son..." he said softly, reaching out.

Connor backed away. "Do you think me so _soft_ that by calling me son I might change my mind? How long did you _sit_ on this information? Or am I to believe you discovered it now? No, you seek to manipulate as you always do, to control every_thing_ and every_one_ since you do not wish to work towards any sort of betterment." Connor continued to back away. "My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less an _atenenyarhu_, and all he does, he does by _your_ command." He turned and stalked further away before turning again, anger and rage exploding from him beyond his control. "A warning to you _both_, choose to follow me or oppose me and I _will_ kill you."

Haytham looked hurt, but disappointed.

Washington looked... sad... regretful... And Connor turned and ran. He found his horse and his father's, took both so that he could switch between them for the three hundred miles he needed to cover to get back to his village, perhaps find the messenger and prevent the slaughter from happening. Even with the messenger killed, he had to warn his people.

* * *

He pushed the horses as fast as he could, galloping and galloping, on roads, through forests, along rivers, as far as he could go before stopping late into the night, then waking as early as possible and repeating. He barely ate. He barely slept. His only priority was to get to his village.

He found the single messenger, killed him with his pistol, then took his horse as another to use to keep the animals rested as he pushed and pushed and _pushed_.

He arrived back at his village at night, just as the sun had set. Several of the young men were loading muskets and filling quivers, and all had _tamahaac_ at their belt or knives of cold iron.

_No_!

Connor leapt off his horse, ran up to Oiá:ner, whom he saw at a fire, talking with a few of the chiefs.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" she said with a bright smile. "You have returned! But why?"

Connor gasped for breath, exhausted after days and days of long riding. "Danger," he panted.

"_Hén_," she said gravely. "A letter came from Ounewaterika, warning us of Patriots who sought to burn our land."

"Ounewaterika? Boiling Water?"

"Charles Lee," she replied. "He sent a letter several weeks ago of how Patriots would come to destroy our village."

"Is our village aligned with the British?"

"_Iá_, of course not," Oiá:ner replied. "You know we do not ally with any side during a war, our duty is to protect this place."

Then they should be safe. Another lie of the Templars.

"The Patriots fight the British. They seek only the tribes allied with the British," he explained. "It is... complicated. This is wrong. Our people are not to fight."

Oiá:ner gave a heavy sigh. "Kanen'tó:kon would disagree. The two of you have inverted. As children you insisted on fighting the oncoming settlers and Kanen'tó:kon pushed it off. Now Kanen'tó:kon is preparing to join other villages to fight, and you advise caution and peace." She shook her head sadly. "Would that the two of you believed in caution and peace at the same time."

"Where is Kanen'tó:kon?" Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I wish to speak to him."

"I sent him hunting to cool his words. But Ratonhnhaké:ton, is this not what you wanted? For us to take a stand?" Oiá:ner looked up at him, bent further with age than he had ever seen her. She raised a snowy brow and asked, with heavy meaning, "Why does this trouble you?"

"Because fighting does not solve the fundamental problem," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, getting his breath back under control. "Fighting and killing is only an option of last resort, when all other diplomacy and tactics have failed."

"Truly, you would have made a wise _roiá:ner_," she said sadly. "I will inform the others that by having no alliances to either these patriots or the British that we will be safe." She turned, starting to hobble away, before she paused. "But sadly, Ratonhnhaké:ton, there will come a time when our people must make so serious a choice. We may avoid it now, but we cannot forever."

"I know."

Ratonhnhaké:ton set out, and realized sadly that he did not know where to look. No longer was Kanen'tó:kon the chubby, lazy thirteen year-old he had known when he had left. It had been almost ten years and his best friend had grown up and experienced things Ratonhnhaké:ton had not, just as the reverse was true. Ratonhnhaké:ton had a far better understanding of the white man's world now, and by understanding both sides, he found that he could not find fault with either. It was a difference of understanding, one that was banished by talking and education, but it seemed there were too many people and not enough time to _create_ that understanding. Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought when he'd left the village that he'd simply wipe out the white man who encroached on his people's lands, but now he had a second village, the homestead, with people who were white, black, and red, that worked in harmony. He could not wipe them out if they came to his people's lands. It left him confused and uncertain.

Just the same as he did not know where to find Kanen'tó:kon. Would his friend be by the river, hunting rabbits or foxes there, or had Kanen'tó:kon started to push himself, would he try to face larger more dangerous animals? What were Kanen'tó:kon's footsteps like? They were no longer heavy because he was chubby. Were his footsteps as silent as Ratonhnhaké:ton's now?

An hour from the village, Ratonhnhaké:ton stopped, looking at a set of stone shelfs that were so very familiar. It was here that he and Kanen'tó:kon, the twins, and little Arushi, had decided to play hide-and-seek on that horrible, horrible day when Ratohnhaké:ton's world fell apart. Even now, the sting of that was surging forward with the betrayal of Washington and his father. All his feelings were entwined, tangled, netted together and he could not sort them out at all. He had left the homestead too soon, he was still unsettled and unable to still his mind. Dobby was right, he needed to deal with it a piece at a time, and he had not had enough time to even make a dent in the massive confusion he felt, and now he had _more_ to add to it.

He reached out, touched the shelves of rock, and closed his eyes.

Stillness. He _needed_ stillness.

His anxiety and fear and uncertainty and pain and betrayal were too strong.

Stillness.

Stillness...

Ratonhnhaké:ton sagged forward. He was exhausted from riding, exhausted from feeling. He was just exhausted.

How much more could he truly take?

He was uncertain how long he stayed there, exhausted and just letting things war within him, but as night swept into darkness and the half-moon above gave its partial light, Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears perked, hearing a noise. He tensed, silently and swiftly coming to his feet, already asking his eagle for help, when he spotted his best friend coming down the trail, several rabbits and a fox tied to his belt as he carried a deer over his shoulders.

Connor stepped out of the shadows of the shelf, smiling that Iottsitíson smiled upon him and guided his friend to him. "Peace, Kanen'tó:kon!" he called.

The reaction he received however, was not one he expected. Kanen'tó:kon immediately dropped the game and pulled out his knife. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," he growled. "Come to kill me yourself?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, jaw and arms slack in surprise. "_What_?"

"Ounewaterika sent a letter and explained everything," his friend spat back. "The Patriots seek to destroy us. And _you_ would aid them."

Manipulation. One final manipulation to send Connor into his father's arms. By ripping away the one thing Ratonhnhaké:ton wished to protect above all else. Be removing the safety as Haytham's had been removed as a child, to see the coldness of the world and why order must be _imposed_. A plan laid out and executed while Ratonhnhaké:ton had marooned Haytham on Martinique.

Everything fell into place so clearly.

Hatred built in Ratonhnhaké:ton until he was ready to burst, but the man he wished to throw that hatred at was not here. So instead, he looked to his best friend. "Charles Lee is a liar!" he growled. "He is not worthy of our giving him a name. He _burned_ our village when we were children. He killed my mother."

"You think I do not _know_ that," Kanen'tó:kon spat back. "I was _there_ when you awoke the whole longhouse with your nightmares of Charles Lee. But he has married one of us, produced twins, he is _not_ who he was when we were children."

Ratonhnhaké:ton's nostrils flared, but he worked to keep himself steady, eyes firmly on the iron knife still held threateningly in Kanen'tó:kon's hand.

"The Patriots fight the British. So one side seeks our aid," Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to be logical and rational about this. "Is this any different than if the Susquehanna fought the Delaware and one asked the Dutch for assistance?" Kanen'tó:kon scowled and scoffed.

"He said you had been corrupted. That you would try and deceive. And now you talk as a white man, twisting words and forking your tongue like a snake. He was right. You say the Patriots mean us no ill?"

"_Iá_! The Patriots will fight those who align with the British, but our village has _always_ avoided alliances and contracts. Its neutrality is what has defended us and by not getting involved it will prevent either side from taking retribution on us."

"Meaning the Patriots _will_ seek to destroy us." Kanen'tó:kon scowled. "You cannot even deny that in your own words."

Ratonhnhaké:ton's voice cracked. "It is a mistake! It is _war_! Surely you have learned as I have from Oiá:ner that war is never simple! It is why our people always chose to talk first!"

"Talking takes too much time!" Kanen'tó:kon shouted back. "The settlers are already here, you admit that the Patriots will seek to destroy us. The only mistake we made was trusting _you_ would help to keep us safe. You who are half-white, who are part of _their_ blood. You who have spent so long with them you no longer look like us in your dress and manners. You who were broken as a child and have never been able to heal. You are _incapable_ of saving us, Ratonhnhaké:ton. The white man has seduced your white half and now you have turned against your own kind."

"I would _never-_"

Kanen'tó:kon lunged forward, swinging his knife, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped back, giving ground with his hands up, not wishing to fight. "Stop!"

"I will. When you are _dead_!"

Kanen'tó:kon lunged forward again, knife flashing in the moonlight, and Ratonhnhaké:ton kept dodging, sidestepping, ducking. His best friend had improved greatly. He was no longer lazy, and had fought long and hard to achieve his skill. Just as Ratonhnhaké:ton had. But Kanen'tó:kon had an edge. He sought to kill his once friend, and Ratonhnhaké:ton did not wish to fight at all. This was his best friend, his support and sanity after his mother had died, his laughter and solace. And even with his dearest friend intent on killing him, Ratonhnhaké:ton _still_ wished to protect him. So he dodged, trying to talk, but Kanen'tó:kon had blocked out his words.

As Ratonhnhaké:ton sidestepped the knife, Kanen'tó:kon reached out and grabbed his necklace of eagle and owl claws that protected his neck, and with a firm yank it was ripped away. Ratonhnhaké:ton backed away, feeling suddenly naked and exposed, as what had defended him from the horrors of his time in prison was removed, and in that moment of distraction, Kanen'tó:kon lunged again, shoving him down.

Ratonhnhaké:ton blocked on instinct, crossing his arms against the knife, but that left Kanen'tó:kon with a free arm that pressed up against his bare and exposed throat.

Suddenly he was six years old, a large pale hand choking him against a tree as words of hatred that he couldn't understand spilled form the lips of the stone-eyed _atenenyarhu_ who would rob him of everything. He was on the gallows, standing tall and proud against accusations he knew to be false as a bag was placed over his head and suddenly he couldn't _breathe_, at age twenty. He watched a massive blacksmith dragged by a rope around his neck behind a horse by those who cruelly thought this was a lesson and he lost his mind after that.

He couldn't _breathe_, he needed _air_, his protective charm was _gone_.

He didn't know where he got the air for it but he screamed, caught in a haze of memories of the most awful moments of his life repeating over and over and _over,_ as he faced hatred, vulgarity, cruelty, brutality, and loss. Make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop_!

But unlike when he was six years old, he was _armed_, and unlike on the gallows, he was _strong_, and whatever sought to strangle him would _die_! His hidden blade extended. He was still screaming, struggling, there was a knife and he held that back, but _air, air, air, air_, the forearm on his neck was pressing deeper and deeper and he thrust with his blade blindly, feeling it sink through soft flesh, and suddenly the knife he was fighting against simply fell forward, a body was on top of him, pressing against his neck and he shoved it off, still screaming and screaming and _screaming_.

Ratonhnhaké:ton came back to himself, gasping and panting and crying and with a raw throat. He looked around, trying to remember what had happened and trying to quell the panic that was still floating in his mind.

And then he saw Kanen'tó:kon and his panic disappeared straight to grief.

"_Kanen'tó:kon!_" he cried out, crawling over, unable to coordinate himself after being insensate.

Blood was black under the pale moon and stars, and Ratonhnhake:ton cradled his best friend to him, screaming again, for a different reason.

"_Kanen'tó:kon_!"

"My passing... wins you nothing..." his friend whispered, still bleeding all over Ratonhnhaké:ton's already stained hands and robes.

"Kanen'tó:kon...!" Ratonhnhake:ton sobbed.

"The Loyalists will win... The revolution will be ended... The Crown victorious... Our people... safe..."

Wailing, Ratonhnhaké:ton held his friend's empty body closer. "It seems our people will never be safe," he gasped between shudders. "You are resting now, my friend.

"Oh my _friend_."

* * *

Ratohnhaké:ton passed out over his friend's body, the exhaustion and hunger finally taking its toll. He did not awaken till dawn was only just cresting the horizon, and he realized the grim task before him. He needed to bring Kanen'tó:kon's body back to the village. Kanen'tó:kon needed a proper burial, else he'd become a _kanontsistóntie_, a severed head with red eyes and long tangled hair that chased and ate humans, always created after a violent death. No, his best friend deserved a _hai-hai_, _needed_ one. Even if it meant that Ratohnhaké:ton never was welcomed back in the village, even if the death had blocked his ears, blocked his eyes, and blocked his mouth. He needed an _akatoni_ to wash out his eyes, cleanse him, but who would after he had killed his own friend?

He lifted his friend's body with great care, set him upon his shoulder, and started the long walk back to Kanatahséton. The weight weighed him down for every step, but he would not falter. He would not hesitate. He would not stumble. He did not deserve to.

Reaching the village at midday, everyone was shocked to find Ratohnhaké:ton carrying the dead Kanen'tó:kon. With great care and gentleness, he set his friends body down, face streaked with dried tear-stains and bruises from their fight. He stayed where he was, kneeling on the ground, staring at his friend's corpse, utterly lost. Voices swirled around him, but he could not hear, people rushed about, but he could not see, someone asked a question, but he could not talk.

He drifted.

But a withered old hand gently brushed his shoulder, and guided him up and to the longhouse. One of the moiety, someone from the Four Younger Brothers had a bowl of water and was wiping his eyes, cleansing him. The moiety spoke of grief, of how it blinds and causes sickness, how it defiles and brings dark clouds. A Belt of Vigilance was already being made for him, his clothes being washed and the sun would be restored.

He was ready to break down into tears again. But the one from the moiety held him close, whispered soothing words, and stroked his hair. Ratohnhaké:ton never liked to be held so, but he was so caught in his own head, he did not even notice. Eventually, as the afternoon wore on, he became aware of his surroundings, emotionally spent and exhausted. A presence beside him left quietly, and when he turned, there was Oià:ner, looking down sadly at him and placing her hand on his forehead. He was laying back on a pile of furs and he let out a long, sorrowful moan.

"Rest, my child," she said. "Kanen'tó:kon will not bring you bad luck. No matter what happened between the two of you, you will both be well."

He did not believe her. After all, he had killed his best friend. But already outside, he could hear the requickening beginning. Someone went by with burial clothes. No doubt _wampum_ were already being gathered and exchanged.

Kanen'tó:kon would be well. Oiá:ner was speaking to him again, but his hunger and exhaustion once more pushed him asleep.

* * *

He awoke to darkness, nightfall again, and he came to a decision.

_Charles Lee_ had to die.

_Now_.

Before he ate anyone else.

With the village asleep, he easily took his three horses for the long and difficult ride ahead of him. He stopped once to wash and change his clothes, feeling sick and disgusted that he was washing the blood of his _best friend_ off of him. He put the soiled clothes in the saddlebag of the messenger's horse and just forgot about them. After that, he only stopped to rest the horses or ration out what was left of his trailmix.

Sleep was only when exhaustion once more took him. Because Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't dare see what his dreams would be like.

* * *

Valley Forge was empty when he galloped through, but Connor had expected that. June was approaching an end, fields had been planted, men were finally ready to fight. With the British seeking to return to New York, the better port city for coordinating the fight with the French that would spread to all their colonies. By then, the British would be well on their way through New Jersey to reach some port and board British ships to swiftly return to New York. Washington and _Lee_ would likely be pursuing, trying to find the best position to attack before the British returned to their long held ground in New York. With Valley Forge being further north than Philadelphia, Connor had a decent idea of what roads Washington would take and knew he would find the American forces before the British, which was to his advantage.

The heat that pounded him every day was almost unbearable, and he took to only wearing a thin cotton shirt. Of his three horses, one died from the heat and the relentless pace that Connor sent. He was soaked in sweat by midmorning, and itched almost constantly during the day until he camped late at night and washed the worst of the sweat off. Talking with townsfolk gave him a clearer idea of where everyone was headed, and he believed that there would likely be a conflict near Monmouth or Englishtown. He pushed harder, riding in the night and sleeping during the day to avoid the heat and to get there faster. Connor needed to kill _Lee_, and he needed to do it before _Lee_ got lost or captured in an engagement with the British.

Yet as he approached, Connor found horror along the sides of the roads. Men, British and American, horses, all just dead along the roads from the pounding, thick, sticky heat. The Americans were fewer, and it was clear Washington, who always cared so dearly for his men, no matter their color (if only he cared for his _people_!), was letting the Americans go barebacked to prevent heat exhaustion, let the heavier equipment be left to the supply train. The British, however, were still in thick wool from their wintering in Philadelphia, and carrying all their supplies of almost a hundred pounds each. They were simply left on the sides of the roads, neither army having the time to bury as one was racing to water and the other was in hot pursuit.

Despite Connor's own burning passion to get to _Lee_ and finally kill the _atenenyarhu_, he slowed his pace so that he would not befall the same fate. _Lee_ was the priority. And that meant he had to be alive to get there.

It was June twenty-eighth that Connor finally found the American army. Just south of where McGellaird's Brook dried up to the East Ravine, a long line of Patriots had formed and across the road was a British response that was disorganized, surprised, and falling into chaos. The southernmost tip of the American line was firing into the British, adding to the confusion, and it looked like canons were also disorganizing the British further. But the northern parts of the American line seemed to be in an ordered retreat, which made no sense for Connor. The Patriots had the British. It was chaos among the redcoats, so why was half the force starting to pull back just as the other half was pressing an advantage? It made no sense!

But that was not Connor's concern. He was here to find _Charles Lee_, and while he had hoped to assassinate him before an engagement, an engagement was just as good a place in all the confusion to kill the _atenenyarhu_. Despite the sweltering heat that had already killed so many, Connor pulled out his hood. He would have to do without the coat it was buckled to, because he did not wish to be recognized for this work. People would merely assume he was using it to keep the unbearable sun out of his eyes.

Connor galloped forward, behind the Patriot lines, trying to find the command structure. The brigadier generals were easy to find, either pushing their men forward to the disorganized mess of the British line, or shouting and growling in frustration at confusing commands that made no sense. Finally Connor found someone who might know _something_.

"Lafayette!" he shouted over the din of the battle.

"_Qui_? Ah, Connor, my friend," the Frenchman gave a wan smile, clearly glad to see a friend, before spurring his horse further into the chaos. "You have arrived _just_ in time to witness our _grand_ victory," Lafayette spat, anger and frustration seeping from him into barely contained sarcasm.

"What has happened?"

Lafayette pulled the reigns and halted his horse, clearly glad to have someone to share his anger with. "It is _madness_!" he growled. "_Général_ Washington asked _Général_ Lee to take command of zhis mission, and when zhe dear _Général Lee_ refused, I was given command."

No doubt to Lafayette's astonishment, Connor mused, as Lafayette was a foreigner, and aide-de-camp, and very, very willing to get into danger if it would help Washington. Even now Lafayette had difficulty walking after his injury at Brandywine.

"_Mais_, last night, _Général _Lee was again given command, and it is clear zhat..." Lafayette cut himself off, trying to censure himself, but finally burst out, "it is clear zhat he only took zhe command once he learned zhat it was given to _me_."

Templar arrogance.

"His orders all day have been non-existent and confusing, I have been _trying_ to see who is where and doing what, but now I learn zhat _Monsieur_ Lee has ordered a retreat and is leaving with zhem. It is _madness_!"

"_Lee_ is in retreat?"

"_Oui_," Lafayette growled, once more spurring his horse forward through the explosions. "I am _trying_ to keep it organized."

Connor looked to the chaos around them. The British were already getting organized, the opportunity lost for the moment, because of the chaos within the command structure of the American troops.

Connor could not stomach death, not for anyone other than _Charles Lee_ at the moment, but he believed in the American cause far too strongly. For freedom. He remembered John Adams proving a British captain innocent after the Boston Massacre, simply to prove that Massachusetts wasn't some den of lawlessness, but a colony that followed the law but was still being punished for it. He remembered Sam Adams speaking of what the law was and how England was circumventing it simply because London ordered it. He remembered the Declaration of Independence, and how people from all colonies had come together, just as how people from all tribes of the _Hadounasaunee_ would come together to solve their problems. Connor couldn't stomach death. But he wouldn't watch what he believed in be crushed because _Charles Lee_ was an arrogant Templar who was only seeking his own glory.

"I will assist you."

"_Merci, mon ami_."

Together they rode from brigadier to brigadier, keeping them organized as they retreated west. Lafayette found a sergeant and ordered him to go back down the road, a few miles to where the other half of the American forces were, and find General Washington and to tell him that his presence was required on the field of battle. Connor was tempted to follow the sergeant, since it would be easier to find _Lee_, but he would not let the Americans suffer for this. He was barking out commands as Lafayette's voice failed him after shouting so much all morning. Already, Connor could easily piece together what _Lee_'s plan was.

With an utter defeat after so much training at Valley Forge, Washington would be removed from command, so that _Lee_ could take over. Haytham would no doubt be pleased, and _Lee_ would be ecstatic. Pity Connor would kill _Lee_ before he had the chance. Just as sending a letter to his village would isolate Ratonhnhaké:ton and possibly send him to his father's arms.

Achilles, Kanen'tó:kon, even to a lesser extent Oiá:ner, had all tried to convince him that the people he sought were _people_, not _atenenyarhu_. But Connor knew, with cold certainty, that _Lee_ was a cannibalistic Stone Coat who ate anyone in his way to achieve his goals. Whether it was his mother, his best friend, or even Washington whom he once admired and all the men who served under him.

"Well done, _mon ami_," Lafayette panted as the cantered their horses back west. The Frenchman pulled out a soiled handkerchief and wiped the rivers of sweat from his brow. "Zhanks to you, many lives have been saved."

"And many lost," Connor countered, stomach turning at all the British who lay dead in the field.

A few miles from the retreat, Connor and Lafayette found Washington organizing all the troops, setting them in the middle ravine, and shouting orders for his column to be brought up swiftly.

"_Damn him_," Washington growled. "A retreat _without engaging_? _Damn him_!" Washington, always so calm and dignified, was radiating the same anger and frustration that Lafayette had.

He whirled his horse, and it collapsed under him, sending him tumbling to the ground, the animal dead from the heat as so many before it.

Calls were made for another horse to be brought forward, and Washington stood, brushing the sandy dust off of him, but still angry, and took a deep breath.

"Lafayette," he greeted. "Since _Mr._ Lee is not commanding, you will take over."

The Frenchman's jaw dropped, face going slack as anger clearly left him. "_Bien sûr_! Your orders?"

But Washington was distracted. "Connor?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton only nodded his head, unable to let go of the anger and betrayal he still felt. And the fact that Washington's anger disappeared and was replaced with sad regret did _not_ help.

"Are your people well?"

"My village knows to not side with the British. I cannot say for others."

"At least your village is safe."

"But my _people_ are not."

"Connor..." Washington's shoulders sagged. "I-"

But Connor _could not_ talk about this now. He could not hear of it. "_Charles Lee_ has betrayed you," he said coldly. "He disobeyed your orders to attack the British, and instead forced a retreat in the midst of battle that the subcommanders saw was advantageous, hoping the loss would take the lives of _your_ men and see you relieved of your command."

"What?" Washington stuttered. "It wasn't just his disagreement with my commands?"

"He is _atenenyarhu_. He is an enemy to _all_. He will not be happy until you are dead or disgraced."

Lafayette eased his horse forward. "It makes sense, sir," he said softly. "_Monsieur_ Lee may have a disliking of me, but zhis was..." he shook his head. "Madness."

Washington nodded. "I will investigate these allegations after this battle."

"_Investigate_?" Connor growled. "The time for that is _long_ past."

Washington looked sadly to Connor, but stood firm. "We are a nation of _laws_. They are to _never_ be superseded, else we're no better than those we oppose."

Anger _surged_ through Connor, expanding his chest to bursting as he locked his jaw to hold it back. That small, gentle rebuttal struck _right_ at the heart of the cause that the Americans held with their freedom, that they had followed the law explicitly until the British started to ignore the legal process. And it should _not_ be a rebuttal given by _Washington_ who would order the _elimination_ of his people if they sided with the British. And Washington had _no right_ to look sad about what had happened between him and Connor.

Well, if Washington ended up choosing to _spare_ _Lee_'s life, then Connor would take it himself. But first they had to survive the battle. And this would be the _last_ victory Connor would help with. Another horse had finally been brought forward for Washington, and he mounted smoothly. "Lafayette," he ordered, "you have the center." The rest of the afternoon was still scorching, as wave after wave of Cornwallis's men surged forward, only to be continuously repulsed from Washington's entrenchment in the Middle Ravine. Connor stayed with Lafayette, not trusting himself to leave _Lee_ alone if he stalked the lines. Lafayette proved to be a surprisingly good commander, given how young and inexperienced he was, and almost in spite of all the rage and hatred roiling around within Connor, spending the afternoon with him and ordering troops and ducking volleys and pushing back the British again and again and again, Connor admitted that he liked the Frenchman.

By five o'clock, the British were once again in disorganized retreat, and with two hours of daylight left, it seemed clear that if the Americans pushed forward, it would be a decisive victory. But it was not to be. The temperatures had taken their toll. Neither side had any energy left, many collapsing where they were, panting heavily, and unable to move.

The battle was over for the day.

And by the next morning, the British had completely fled, leaving the battle at a strategic draw. Connor was frustrated that the war would continue, but his primary focus now was _Lee_'s court-martialing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now Lee will forever be referred to as Lee, because Connor has been pushed to the point of breaking.
> 
> We always felt a little bad for this memory; with so little interaction with Kanen'to:kon we never felt connected with him and sad for his loss. That doesn't mean we didn't play it as rough as possible, however, because while we might not be connected, Ratonhnhake:ton is, and this is the latest in a string of hard blows that he has to face: the death of his mother, abuse in prison and his public hanging, rebuffs by his father, the huge fight with Achilles, and now being responsible for killing his best friend and his village coming to the conclusion that they absolutely must pick a side. He's running out of time and he knows it, but he is self-aware enough to know that all of this is very damaging, and he wants to come out of this whole somehow, even as more parts of him are ripped away.
> 
> ... Remind us again why people find him uninteresting? Like... he has the best character arc after Eddie Kenway (and yes, even though we didn't like the game we agree the story was masterfully told) and Altair. Anyway.
> 
> Haytham appears again, but Connor is better prepared to deal with him and even manages to get under his skin a little bit - a small victory with all that happens - but Haytham finally (belatedly) realizes what some of the thoughts his son has for him. He's too far gone in his own pain to even try and mend the fence, but at least he now understands that the rift is too great, no matter how curious he may be (at half as curious as Connor, we figure) the chance is dead and gone. But more on that later.
> 
> Note that we fudge the time quite a bit here. Traveling New England is not easy even with cars, and we had the small but useful formula of assuming a horse could comfortably travel twenty miles in a day as our equation of figuring how long it takes to get from one place to another, which is why we can reference things as taking a week to get from point A to point B. Connor travels from Pennsylvania to upstate New York and back - that's over six hundred miles round trip; aka 30 days of travel done in a week. We kept it as vague as possible.
> 
> Also, the letter Connor reads is the actual orders of Washington to General Sullivan for the Sullivan Expedition. More on that later, but the point is the letter is exactly one year later, making the timing even hazier, and we had to decide which came first: Monmoth or killing Kanen'to:kon. Ultimately Kanen'to:kon feeds into the drama a little more and acts as the final break with Haytham, so Washington - out of respect for Connor - puts the orders on hold until he can't put it off anymore. More on that later.
> 
> The biggest factor of Monmouth aside form Lee was the heat. Record temperatures put it over a hundred degrees, fighting in heavy wool and a hundred pounds of equipment on their backs. The British suffered heat stroke in droves while Washington was a might smarter. Again, we played to history as much as we could.
> 
> Also note, we talk about the hai-hai and akatoni and the Requickening. Finding articles about Haudenosaunee funerals took an ungodly amount of time, and this had to be added back in waaaaaaaaaay after the fact. We hope it works at least in part. We'll go into more detail, uh, at a different funeral. Also note that Connor doesn't stick around for the ceremony - that is a HUGE breach in culture for him, because he was never cleansed of Kanen'to:kon's death and allowed to mourn. He doesn't feel worthy of it, and that will hurt him as much as anything else that happens to him.
> 
> Next chapter: Desmond. Cross. Abstergo.


	25. Death of An Abstergo Agent

God, Connor's life _sucked_ and _sucked balls_. Desmond squeezed his eyes shut, taking the time to close the partition, closing the sense of betrayal from Washington and the cold, the unending hatred of _Charles Lee,_ the bitter Gordian knot known as Haytham Kenway. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his lids, before looking up to the pinched face of Rebecca. She looked about how Connor felt ninety-nine percent of the time, and he felt a pit form in his stomach.

"Something's happened, Desmond," she said slowly, painfully. "Abstergo has your dad."

Ice.

Stones in his stomach.

Then action. He smoothly rose to his feet, a soft, "Where?" escaping his lips.

Shaun answered, lowering the lid on his laptop. "Italy. Same place they were holding you."

Irony only registered briefly before he powered his way to the front of the cave, pausing only to turn and see if he was being followed. He wasn't. Confusion. Anger. "What are you two waiting for?" he demanded. "Let's go."

Rebecca looked like she would bolt if someone so much as breathed on her. "There's more," she said, her voice almost ready to break.

Desmond backtracked to the computer. Shaun was looking away, glasses off and rubbing his eyes as Rebecca cued up a video, clicking fullscreen. Black background, strong overhead light, like some kind of bad cop or spy movie. At its center was William, arms behind him, probably tied, dark shadows playing on his face because of the harsh light. And calmly strolling behind him was the white lab coat, the grizzled features, the person who personified Abstergo in Desmond's mind. The snide sneer, the oily voice, the arrogant tone. War_den_ Vi_dick_. Desmond's captor, Lucy's captain, the source of all his pain.

"Hello again, Mister Miles," Vidic said, smoothly polite and arrogant and threatening all at once. "I hope this message finds you well - or as well as it can, all things considered." Desmond leaned in, blood pumping in his ears, making it hard to hear as he stared at the screen. "It appears we now each have something the other desires. I propose a trade. Bring me the Apple and I'll return your father to you no worse for the wear. Should you refuse, he will still be returned, albeit _much worse_ for the wear. I assume you'd like to avoid an unpleasant outcome."

Bastard. Fucking _bastard_.

_Atenenyarhu_. _This_ was the Stone Coat that Ratonhnhaké:ton spent his life fighting, a man perfectly satisfied to eat everything in his path, damn the consequences because he was _above_ it all. _Fucking bastard_. He looked to Rebecca, trembling in her seat, and Shaun, grim set to his jaw. They all nodded, and without a word they began their work. Rebecca went up to the van to do last minute security checks and make sure no one would detect them. Shaun began packing rough supplies, spare clothes, bottled water. For the first time Desmond saw a gun, ammunition, and Shaun put it in the small of his back as he opened up a metal box. Desmond, well, he went to the Apple. It responded happily to his touch, and he thought of Altair and his studies, knowing there were basic instructions it carried out.

"Not now," he said quietly, "I'll need you later. Sleep just a little longer."

The little metal ball giggled and quieted, and he zipped it up in his courier bag. He wondered if Abstergo really knew what was about to happen to them when he got there. He wondered if Abstergo even knew what was about to happen… And had this been a part of their plan all along? Maybe they wanted the world to end. To see it all burned away. Then they'd have their new world - ripe for the reshaping...

"I suppose it's not worth even asking about the probability of this being a giant trap?" Shaun asked, pulling the gun out and storing it, locking it away and pocketing the key. "We all know what they want: the Apple and your DNA. Losing you loses all chance of opening that gate over there," he jabbed his thumb to the ethereal cyan glow at the back of the cave, "and thereby all chance of saving the world. Perhaps another power source would be a better idea?"

"That's probably what he'd want," Desmond said, knowing his father too well. "For us to finish the mission. The greater good comes first and damn the cost of reaching it. But I can't."

He looked Shaun hard in the eye, jaw set.

"I _can't_," he repeated. "It's hard enough taking a life - but letting one be taken... Knowing there was something I can do about it. Not a chance. Might be I'm risking my life - risking all our lives to save an asshole. But what else am I supposed to do? That asshole is my _dad_. I'm an _Assassin_, and I'm going to follow the Creed. No harm to the innocent."

"Bill's a lot of things, but he's not exactly innocent, Desmond," Shaun said gently.

"No, he's not, but he's not a bloodthirsty savage like other people out there. He's _only_ just an asshole."

Shaun nodded, and they moved to the van.

It was December eleventh, only ten days before the end of the world, and that belied any chance of doing this subtly. They knew they were coming, regardless, there was no point driving up to Canada to mask their movements. They simply drove to JFK, booking a private plane and charting it straight to Rome.

It was an eight and a half hour flight, flying into the night and crossing six time zones and spanning God knew how many miles. They left at ten a night and arrived at 12:30 the next morning, screwing with Desmond's internal clock. The flight was mostly quiet, everyone too tense to really say anything into the heavy air that surrounded them. Rebecca poured over the laptop, having a dozen different windows and tabs and programs running to try and prepare for the assault they were about to lay. Shaun sent word out to the other teams before trying to poke around the Abstergo servers. They hadn't back-traced him yet, he wanted to get as much information as possible and relay it to Rebecca, the default strategist as she tried to metaphorically shove as much information into her mind as possible to figure out the best way in.

Desmond had little to do, no laptop to play with, and no brain power to distract himself. It wasn't that he hadn't tried, he paced the tiny cabin of the plane, tried to exercise, tried to sleep, tried to _anything_, but his mind had only one thing to consume itself:

Abstergo had his dad.

Abstergo had his _dad_.

He always knew it would come to this, a final confrontation between him and Vidic, a clash of ideals and principles and raw hatred. Just... not so soon. After, he had always thought, getting Vidic would always come _after_. After they opened the gate. After they got over Lucy. After they fixed Rebecca. After he'd talked to his dad. After, after, after... But like so much in his life, the world decided _screw you and your plans_ and dumped it on his lap now. Don't freak out about the world ending in ten days, do this now. Don't worry about escape, do this _now_. Don't worry about mending the broken relationship with your dad, don't worry about grieving over Lucy, don't worry about wondering about your mom, don't worry about Juno and her fucked up games, don't worry about _anything_ but _saving the asshole_ and making all of this _worth_ something, because if he just left his old man to kick the bucket, then he was no better than the fucking _Templars_.

It had to matter. He'd told Clay that, and it still held true. What they did _mattered_, and the people who did it couldn't be whittled down to nothing, just footnotes in the grand scheme of deeds done under the title of following the Assassin's Creed. Holding the world so far away, like William did, like Haytham did, it was little more than hiding from the pain – and it wasn't like hiding from the pain was justified, true – but it hid away from the _rest_ of life, too, and Desmond would be _damned_ if he acted like that. Not after seeing the love Altair and Maria shared, not after rekindling a broken relationship with Claudia, not after learning about strength from Ellen and Prudence and Achilles and Lyle. The people mattered. They _had_ to matter.

Even his asshole prick of an old man.

_That_ was his interpretation of the Creed. _That_ was the conclusion he had come to.

Growling, he pulled out his phone, wondering if there were any games on them. He needed to distract-

_New Message (1)_.

What?

_He_ had a _message_? Since _when_? He fiddled with the buttons until he opened up the text.

_They're going to be here soon. Trapped me in this damn museum. Should've taken more precautions... I'm sorry, son. It wasn't fair of me to come down on you the way I did. You never asked for any of this, and I should have been more understanding. I hope you can forgive me. I love you._

… Jesus Christ.

Desmond's grip on the phone was so tight he thought he would crack the screen, he was shaking with... with... there were too many emotions to name, and he chucked the offending object across the cabin, growling low in his throat and startling his two companions before he darted to the lav and hurled.

In five simple sentences William Miles had said everything he had ever wanted to hear, smoothed over so many of the rough patches of their relationship. Fuck, _he admitted he was wrong_. All in a _fucking text message_. What was he supposed to do with that? Knowing that William was being held hostage? Knowing the old man would rail at him for coming after him? What the _fuck_ was he supposed to feel with that.

He looked up in the mirror, saw a haggard face look back at him, grim, determined, and with the faintest hint of relief.

_I love you_.

"... I love you too, Dad," he whispered.

They landed a half past midnight and disembarked by one. Leonardo da Vinci International. Jesus, Ezio's best friend would be amused to have an airport named after him. Desmond watched Shaun ask about hotels in Italian – the language was different than what he was used to, less flowery, more modern, but he had the core of it down in the span of the conversation. He glanced at Rebecca, dark circles under her eyes. When had she last slept? "Is Isola Tiberina..." he started to ask. "I mean, it's been hundreds of years, but..."

"Sort of," Rebecca said, turning red eyes to him. "Modern construction has affected a lot of it, it doesn't look like it did for Ezio, but it's still there. I don't know if Abstergo knows about it, though."

"They do not," Shaun said softly, rejoining the group as they left the airport. Desmond had his hood up, Rebecca with a hat pulled down low and a blond wig, while Shaun had transformed himself from collegiate hipster to an out-of-date version of Dr. Who. "It's just over a half hour from here, barring traffic at this time of night, and one of the teams is dusting it off now as we speak. Hasn't been used in just over a hundred years, it'll be long forgotten in history."

"Good," Rebecca said. "We can set up, get a few hours shut eye, and then plan the assault."

The car drive was cramped and disconcerting. Desmond kept expecting to see horses and frocks instead of cars and highways. They took A91, following the Tevere into Trastevere and to Ponte Cestio. The warehouse of old was of course nowhere to be seen, the skyline was all wrong, and they parked in a lot with a building of a design unfamiliar to Desmond. Was this always here? He touched Ezio's partition, trying to figure it out as Shaun started talking.

"San Bartolomeo all'Isola," he said by way of introduction. "Built sometime in the tenth century atop and old temple of Aesculapius by Holy Roman Emperor Otto III. Supposedly it holds the relics of St. Bartholomew the Apostle. Did Ezio ever visit?"

"... I don't know," Desmond said. "He knew the island very well, but he didn't really care about the _places_ so much as the _people_. Ancient Roman ruins weren't much of a thing for him."

"Of course not," Shaun said easily, "He was Italian. Saw them all the time."

"Where's the entrance?" Rebecca said quietly. "I don't like being above ground for so long."

Shaun jutted his head to one side, gesturing with his chin to follow him, and they moved around the structure. The island was _tiny_, even to Ezio's memories, though probably that was because of the drastically different skyline. There weren't skyscrapers, towering modern constructions the way New York was continually transformed, but rather a building here, a power line there, antenna and satellite dishes and... Desmond shook his head. He couldn't open Ezio's partition here, no good would come of his Italian ancestor going nuts over the changes of his beloved city. He wondered dimly how Jerusalem and Masyaf looked now, in modern times, and dreaded the thought of Altair looking on those cities. Was there anything left of Damascus with the civil war in Syria? He didn't dare think about it.

At the base of the tower of San Bartolomeo was a nondescript crevice, and an Italian in dark wash jeans and windbreaker leaned against it. "_Ciao_," she said lightly.

"_Ehi, bella_," Desmond said politely, "_Cosa ci fai qui?_"

The woman smirked. "What any woman would be doing here at two in the morning," she answered, "waiting for _him_," she jutted an accusatory finger at Shaun. "A little advance warning would have been nice, _coglione_, I almost didn't find what we wanted in our archives."

"Help for the girl who doesn't speak Italian?" Rebecca asked lightly, tugging at her wig and cap.

"Nothing important," Shaun said smoothly, before turning to the woman. "You were saying?"

"Entrance is this way, _asino_, you owe me big."

"_Naturalmente_," Desmond said. "We're grateful for the help."

The woman looked at him, eyes hard and penetrating. "William saved our unit once," she said. "_We're_ the ones who are grateful to repay the debt. Get him back safely." The Assassin turned and pulled away, revealing that she had been blocking a narrow entrance lost in the shadows of the crevice. "Goes down about thirty feet, below all the infrastructure. Whoever built it did a good job, most of it's still intact."

And just a little bit of Ezio bled through, curving on his lips and offering an ironic grin. "_Parole gentili da una bella donna ._"

"What are you, Florentine?"

Desmond chuckled and followed Shaun and Rebecca down the entrance, a sharp set of circular stairs leading down to the ancient passages Ezio had used so frequently. Desmond closed his eyes for a moment, making sure his partition was closed firmly, not wanting more of his ancestor to bleed through. He shouldn't have touched the partition earlier. By the time it was locked in place they were in the underground section of the old warehouse, where the induction so often happened. The rich reds of fabric were gone, the brazier long since disappeared, the cavernous room littered with decrepit boxes and refuse of age. Desmond felt a prick of sadness to see the epicenter of the Renaissance fallen so far, but his father was priority and he set his jaw, focusing on the task at hand.

Rebecca was immediately setting up her computers and pulling up her headphones. "Coffee," she mumbled. "Soon as the shops open. Lots of it."

"What, more?" Shaun said, incredulous. "You haven't slept-"

"_Coffee_," she insisted, and then shut out the world as she stared at her screen.

Desmond and Shaun shared a helpless look before getting to work setting up the place for a camp. It was dawn when they were finally settled, and Shaun disappeared to get the coffee and other foodstuffs from a nearby eatery. Exhaustion claimed Desmond eventually, and he woke hours later to see Rebecca still at it, hunched over nearly into a ball as she tapped and clicked and scrolled through her windows. A dozen pieces of paper were printed out somehow, pen marks and bits of words littering them as their technician became a master of the building they were about to assault. Shaun was looking over the work as well, the decryption master occasionally saying something or flipping open a map. Without William, it was up to those two to come up with the best course of action, be most aware of the pitfalls and dangers they faced. Desmond had been in the building previously, but that did not account for the two and a half months since his escape.

"How's it looking?" he asked.

"Just a bit more," Rebecca said, her voice hoarse and tired and barely audible. A breeze would knock her over.

"Not particularly," Shaun corrected, giving her a firm look. "We have all the information we need, it's just a matter of choosing the best path." The gun was out again, sitting idly on a table; two more had joined it from somewhere.

"All things considered," Desmond said, "The path is pretty obvious. I go in with the Apple."

Rebecca shook her head. "Give me a little more time, I can-"

"No, Rebecca," Desmond said firmly but gently. "You can't. Vidic already knows that we're coming, he's already planning to make all of this go south on us as fast as possible. There is no finesse here, just blueprints and directions from you over the comm, Shaun at the wheel to get us out of here."

The Brit looked up. "Just a minute," he said, "Are really suggesting what I think you are? That you go in alone, guns blazing, like some kind of mad video game power fantasy?"

"Not like _that_, no," Desmond said, "but yeah. I go in alone."

All hell broke loose after that.

"What the hell are you thinking?"

"Just how do you expected to get in with no back up?"

"No, you don't understand, I'm-"

"What was all that work we just did-"

"What happens if things go sideways-"

"I need to do this-"

"Bloody American-"

"_I don't want to lose anyone else!_"

Rebecca's shriek echoed over the excellent acoustics of the initiation chamber of the hideout, silencing Desmond and Shaun as they stared at her. Rebecca was trembling visibly, being up over twenty-four hours and who knew how much before that, struggling to assimilate everything she needed for the mission and still broken over the loss of Lucy. Her eyes were wide, slightly wild, as she looked back and forth between the two and taking a shaky breath, turning and moving to the other and of the chamber without so much as a sound. Shaun immediately moved to go after her, and Desmond didn't know what to do.

It was all so fucked up. All of it. Vidic, his dad, Lucy, the end of the world, there was no way to deal with this and still be sane. The pressure was getting to all of them. He looked around the initiation chamber, and growled in his throat, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He needed to get out of here, put his head on straight, figure out something. Anything. _Every_thing.

Hood up, he exited the hideout, crossing the Ponte Fabricio and hopping on the first mass transit he could find, a fucking tour bus of all things, and sat in the cab, staring at the text from his father and trying to figure out what to do. He must have ridden for over an hour, stopping at random points for tourists to get off or get on, before the press of the people was too much for him. He pounded the streets, listening to the Italian and wondering what Ezio would do in this situation. Or Altair. Or Connor. Well, Connor was still figuring out that the _fuck_ to feel about his father, so maybe not him. And Altair never really _knew_ his father, so nix that. Ezio? With Giovanni on the line, what would Ezio do? Would family trump the Templars?

Hell yes. Ezio had committed bloody slaughter to save Claudia, and he would die a thousand times for Flavia and Marcello and Federica. But would he give up the Apple, knowing what it could do? Knowing what the Templars would do?

Answers eluded him, and he didn't dare open Ezio's partition to find out. Not in Roma and not with so much still to do.

He had entered a park without really noticing it at first, he just looked up suddenly and saw greenery instead of alleys and buildings. He slowed to a stop, trying to figure out where he was. He asked a family passing by, passing off as being the sad lost tourist. Villa Borghese, they said, the third largest park in Rome, large enough for a zoo and other amenities, the Italian version of Central Park in New York. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and even so deep into December people were _everywhere_, enjoying the intricate gardens and paths, the architecture of the _villa_ and the wintering birds that were flittering this way and that, happy to be fed by tourists and natives alike.

Desmond sat at a bench, watching the people go by, so similar and so different to Central Park. Kids were running around, shrieking happily and oblivious to the danger his father was in. A part of him was resentful even as another was grateful that the little brats were so happily ignorant of the world around them. So many things were firing back and forth in his head, the winter sun beating down on his back, warming him slightly against the chill. He stared at his phone, at his text.

The old man deserved a reply.

"Hey Dad," he said to the recording. "Ah... you know it's uh... it's funny. I-" God, where did he start? How did he try to break down his thoughts?

"I have this memory of you," he said, "one I keep coming back to... and... I- I always think about it when I'm working, or just before going to bed. Because it..." He thought about it while captured at Abstergo, he thought about it when he was training with Lucy, he thought about it constantly at Bad Weather. It was that one crystallizing moment of his childhood, that one moment that said everything about his feelings about his father, that was a touchstone of teen angst. And later, when he was older it... "Uh... sort of... calms me, I guess."

When he was older, and he looked back...

"Um," he fumbled, the memory coming alive in his mind, well-traveled and all the details perfectly memorized. "I- I was fourteen, I think and uh, and you were trying to teach me how to walk with a light step. Remember that? How to be mindful of how much noise I made when I moved around... simple stuff.

"Stuff I understand now," he said, rueful smile crossing his scarred mouth, "but back then... I- uh... I gotta tell you, I thought you were just being an asshole." Just pushing and pushing, being difficult for the sake of being difficult, being cruel just because he _could_. It was the sum total of his training, things Desmond couldn't understand because of his sheltered life on the farm, things he would have to learn the hard way just like everyone else in history. Something so simple to understand and so fucking hard to execute. "So... uh, you told me you were gonna go up to your room, and sit with your back to the door, and read a book... and you wanted me to wait at least fifteen minutes, and then sneak up there to tap you on the shoulder without you knowing." All the details were there, the color of his sweater, the worn feeling of the rug on bare feet, the scent of candlelight. "I- I even remember the book you were reading at the time, the one by Captain Johnson... and you warned me, that if you caught me we'd have to start all over... then you went upstairs... and I waited..."

God. He was so damn determined. He was so pissed off that William had even set up this stunt, so determined to prove the old fart wrong, to hand out comeuppance, to prove to the _world_ that he was good at _something_ damn it, something as simple as surprising his stupid fucking prick of on old man. "I waited and I waited and I waited... I waited four hours before deciding to go up." So stubborn, so goddamned _stubborn_ that he was going to get this right. Desmond smiled, had been smiling, even all these years later, even with all the stress and madness and chaos, even now it still brought a smile to his face, this memory. "And even then, it took me twenty minutes to get to the foot of the stairs. And another thirty to get up them. And then to get down the hall, and there I was at the door... and I peeked into your room... and I was- I was _so_ hoping that you'd be asleep. But no. No you... you were still reading. And I just about _shit_ myself."

So fucking stubborn to prove that he was right, so fucking determined to prove himself to the world, so desperately determined to wait until the old man was asleep. But it was like the old black and white fifties sitcom – Father Knows Best. No matter how much the kid thought he knew, the old man always knew a little bit more. Energy and determination and brash reckless attitude didn't mean _shit_ against tempered experience and strategy. Desmond would never be better than his father because he just lacked experience. And fourteen year old Desmond refused to admit it.

"But ten minutes later I was just five feet away from you. And that's when I remember setting my foot down... and you flinched... ever so slightly... you- you flinched. I thought maybe I'd imagined it." Every rationale under the sun, every possible excuse for the truth to not be true, but... "But I knew you'd heard me... you- you didn't say anything. You just checked your watch, you reached for your drink, you took a sip, and then you kept reading. But I knew I'd failed."

He looked down at his phone, barely seeing it for the memory flooding his brain. Fourteen year old Desmond didn't understand. He had _failed_. He was _nothing_ compared to his dad. The shame of it was overwhelming, the disappointment, the burning desire for it to not be true. He waited for William to say something, to have that uppity lecture on why his lessons were so important, the "I told you so" sense of superiority. But... "But you didn't say anything," Desmond muttered, reliving the confusion, the anger. "I- I- I didn't understand why. Then I lunged and tapped you on the shoulder. And you turned around. And 'Oh! Fantastic!' you said, and you scooped me up and gave me a big hug. And I didn't say anything. But Dad...

"Dad, I was so pissed off," Desmond muttered, remembering the tight embrace no fourteen year old would _ever_ live down. "I wanted to scream at you... I- I had failed and you _knew_ it. But you said nothing. And I stayed mad. For weeks I thought you were... you were patronizing me. I thought maybe you decided right there that I was never going to be the man you wanted me to be..." The teenage mind could come to no other conclusion, had no other way to justify the quintessential training god of an old man would actually _let_ a failure like that slide; the only possible option was "humoring" the wayward son, letting him think he had made Daddy proud.

"But I realized just a few years ago that... you checking your watch... that was the clue, wasn't it? You let me win because... I'd been so patient... and I guess that impressed you." He may have failed the test of the light step, but he had won at something else, something maybe even bigger: patience. "You know," he said, soft grin on his face, "maybe at that moment, you thought it might be better to be my Dad instead of my mentor. I... I don't really know... maybe for you, they're... they're one and the same... you know, either way, I'm happy to know that both my mentor and my Dad were looking out for me that day. I didn't even understand that then... I think I do now."

That moment, it was the best memory he had of his dad being... his _dad_. It was the one moment he could look back on and say that, _that_ was the kind of man his father was like. His other ancestors, they didn't have that, not even Ezio, who didn't learn what his father was like until after his death. That memory was why he had to do this, why it had to be his way. Realizing that made him feel... not better, but more settled, affirmed. He knew what lay ahead of him, and now he just had to convince Shaun and Rebecca.

* * *

Back at the hideout, he moved immediately to Rebecca.

"I understand," he said, leaning over and touching her arm and meeting her gaze. "This isn't a suicide run, I'm not about to sacrifice myself for anything. I promise I have a plan, and I need your help for it to work."

Two hours later they all agreed – even Rebecca – and they moved in. Shaun and Rebecca were, perhaps not anonymous, but not the eyes-everywhere-world-terrorist target the Desmond Miles was. The longer they stayed hidden the better, and while Rebecca best served in the van monitoring Desmond's moves, digital chatter, and hacking the building security systems to have even the tiniest inch of an edge, Shaun was the best acclimated to European driving and knew all the back roads of Rome far better than the Americans. Inside, well, inside wasn't going to be about brains, it was going to be about brawn, and Desmond was more than ready to follow the Creed. As they packed up Shaun put the gun in the small of his back again, handing Rebecca a tiny 9mm, and offered a gun to Desmond.

He shook his head.

Shaun pushed his point. "You're going into the mouth of the dragon," he said in quiet tones, respectful of Rebecca as she packed up her things. "Abstergo will be armed to the teeth, you can't go in unarmed."

"I'm not," Desmond replied. With a flick of the wrist he unsheathed his hidden blade, and tucked into his belt was a combat knife.

Shaun made the smallest of faces. "This isn't the Middle Ages," he said, weight in his voice.

"No, it's not," Desmond agreed. "But this is how I was trained. Connor almost never used his gun, and I understand why, there are better methods to fighting than just pointing and shooting. They'll never get the _chance_ to shoot at me. Besides, I was always a _terrible_ shot."

"I don't want to _bury_ you, mate," Shaun said, stepping into Desmond's circle, eyes intense behind his glasses. "Lucy was more than enough. And you need to think about Rebecca."

"I _am_. She can't take much more death – and that includes the guards in the building. Shaun, stop being a prick for two seconds and _let me do this_."

Tension rippled through the two of them, months of jabbing at each other coming almost to a head, neither of them willing to back down, both of them seeing the world differently, having different strengths and weaknesses that did not accent each other at all, both trying to will the other to see their point of view.

And then the moment was gone, just like that, as Rebecca said the van was loaded and it was time to go.

Desmond never took the gun.

The drive to Abstergo took less than twenty minutes. Desmond could feel the Apple in his courier sack, probably knowing what was coming and happy to play a part. He ignored the voices with the practiced ease of Altair and Ezio, knowing it was only going to be used for _one thing_. He tugged at the tips of his sleeves, hiding the straps of his hidden blade and nervous energy building in him. Connor felt this anxiety every day, and Desmond practiced the stillness his ancestor could never master. He closed his eyes, reaching to the black island in his mind, touching the partitions, asking for strength, before locking them away. Bleeding was not an option for this op.

They parked at a sports club, at the _Parco de Medici_. There was, after all, a certain irony in that. The triangular shaped building at Via Viola Cesare Giulio, 68, seemed so like the triangular symbol that Abstergo used, and Desmond mused at the similarities as he studied the building. With a deep breath, Desmond checked his hoodie and got out, closing his eyes.

This was it.

Moment of truth.

If nothing else, he would certainly have a light step.

The thought made him smile, and he simply walked into the building.

"_They're probably holding your father on the upper levels. Same place they kept you. There's an elevator bank down the hall. Try not to let them see you._"

Desmond muttered a reply. "They know I'm here, Rebecca. There's no way they don't." Hands in his pockets, head down, he saw dozens of feet in the main lobby: high heels, loafers, shiny high end business shoes that spoke of wealth and status. Lab coats, desks, computers, contemporary glass and pristine floors. Everything about this place screamed elite. Desmond in his skinny jeans and hoodie and sneakers stuck out more than if he had gone in guns blazing, and he watched as stances shifted, feet turned, the hushed sound of work dimmed. Not even four steps and he had been made. But, then, he knew that was going to happen.

"_This,_" Shaun said, voice tense, "_this was a bad idea._"

Desmond walked down the hall to the elevator bank, just as Rebecca suggested. He saw two security guards at the end, shoulders straight, the bulk of Kevlar under their shirts, waiting for his approach.

"Hand over your weapons and come with me, sir."

Desmond couldn't _quite_ hold back the New York snark. "I can show myself in," he said calmly, just a hint of wry in his voice, "but thanks for the offer."

And then, from speakers somewhere, "_I'd rather this not turn ugly, Mister Miles._"

Fucking bastard watching from his office. Dick. Memories of his capture bled through his eyes, listening to the chaos of a team trying to break him free, Vidic at a comm, giving orders like a god. Anger pulsed bright in the back of his nerves, but he pushed it aside as best he could, looking up to the ceiling and calling on his lame forensic eagle, eyes picking out the camera. Chew on that, asshole, chew on how he knew where the camera was.

"If you really want this simple," he said, voice carrying out over the entire lobby, "then let me through. I don't want this to be ugly either. Just bring out my dad and we can leave, no harm done. This is your chance, Vidic. This is your chance to prove that Abstergo, that _Templars_ can really be the good shepherds you always claim to be, this is your chance to prove you're _worthy_ of the position you've put yourselves in."

Desmond sensed more than saw people glancing back and forth, curious frowns, several backing up as they realized something Desmond already knew. The smart ones started to get away.

Then,

"_Subdue the subject, please._"

Fucking dick _bastard_.

The two guards pulled out fancy looking batons, and with a click of a button Desmond could see that they held charges. He spread his feet, adjusting his stance easily and raising his hands. "I do not want to hurt you," Desmond said, perhaps louder than necessary. "I don't want to spill innocent blood. Just let me through and nothing bad will happen."

Neither listened.

"_Desmond?!_" That was Shaun, but the first guard already moved in. His form was good but not great, sliding in and swinging his baton with a small measure of precision. Desmond was not about to be shocked by that thing, however, and side-stepped the strike grabbing the wrist and extending his hidden blade, stabbing in the shoulder, below the collar bone and above the lung, a nonfatal strike. He twisted, ensuring the guy wouldn't get up again, and retracted his blade quickly and shoving the guard aside before stepping into the circle of the second, too shocked at seeing his partner taken down in less than three seconds to recognize the danger. Desmond grabbed at his face, and placed his feet, hooking it around and yanking a leg out from under the guard, letting the guy fall backwards and using his grip to add more force to the fall. The guard landed on his head, and Desmond got up and walked calmly to the elevators, two men down but not dead. He hoped that would send a message to the other security people.

Rebecca told him fourth floor and he pushed the button mindlessly, all his energy focused on his task. He felt the hum and shift of the pulleys begin their work. Adrenaline was starting to pump into his system, more than he was already flooded with, and he knew his eyes were dilated, his body humming with energy.

The elevator suddenly cut off on the second floor, jolting Desmond. Vidic's voice permeated the small box.

"_Well, I see you've learned absolutely nothing since you left us. Walking into an elevator in the middle of a hostile environment. Really?_"

The hatred Desmond felt in that moment rivaled only Ratonhnhaké:ton's hatred for Charles Lee.

"Where's my father?" he asked rather than spouting vitriol. He couldn't let his anger to the talking, that would be giving Vidic what he wanted.

His answer was a dry, smarmy laugh. "_You'll see him soon enough. Now be a good boy and wait for security to fetch you._"

Well fuck _that_ idea. He glanced around the elevator, considering his options, when he saw an access grate in the ceiling. It was too perfect to ignore, and he pulled it open and hoisted himself up. If Vidic wanted to play, then so could he. He glanced at the array of cubicles in the lobby, the bird's eye view impressive but not a blip on his radar. The mechanics of the shaft gave him a laundry list of handholds and he easily made his way up. The fourth floor door was open and he could make out voices from above, more Abstergo agents.

"He's headed up the elevator shaft! Send someone in!"

"Need eyes on him!"

"He can't be far."

"Where the hell is he...?"

Three guards. Good. Desmond inched his way up to the open door, sticking to shadows at first. He would have to time this right. He saw a silhouette peak out over the edge, looking for him, before turning back. Perfect! He launched himself up three feet, reaching up and grabbing the belt of the guard, who gave a startled cry as he pitched violently backward and fell down the shaft. "It's only two stories," Desmond muttered to himself, "you'll live."

"What happened? Did he fall?"

A second guard came, just as Desmond was hoping, and he managed to pull the stunt a second time, pitching the guy down the shaft before hoisting himself into the hall. The third guard was ready, but Desmond was faster, ducking under a swipe and stabbing his hidden blade into the soft tissues of the guys abdomen, right above the hip. Serious but not fatal, that's what he was going for.

Rebecca's voice crackled in his ear. "_Your dad could be anywhere, Desmond. I'm sorry but I just don't know where he is._"

"That's okay," Desmond replied softly. "I do..."

Vidic was nothing without a sense of sick, twisted irony. He knew _exactly_ where his father was, and he knew how to get there, too. Lucy filled his mind, her soft looks and quiet words, feeding him, leaving him just enough information, letting him feel the need to leave the building. Templar she may have been, but some of those emotions were real, painfully real, and he hated Vidic even more for using that to his advantage. He powered down the hall, bursting into a conference room and seeing all the lab coats of worker bees scramble to get out of his way.

"Let's make this clear," he said, his voice carrying. "I will hurt no one, absolutely no one, if I just go where I need to go. Nobody's died yet, and I'd rather keep it that way."

Four security guards came in.

Right.

Desmond ducked under two swings, giving a bladed punch to one of the guys and sending blood spurting everywhere. Finally forced to pull out his combat knife he used it to catch a strike from the charged batons and shoved it aside, his hidden blade extracted and flying about the fight. It was over in three minutes, and Desmond barely felt winded, too much adrenaline in his brain for him to notice if he was pushing himself or not. He exited onto a series of catwalks above something, trees growing up from below, and he immediately took to them, using their foliage and shadows as cover. He hopped from one tree to the next, eyes always on security as they moved up and down the catwalks, trying to figure out where he had disappeared to, trying to guess where he would show next.

He looped around them, landing in a tight roll on the far landing and stepping through a door to another hallway.

Hallway...

_Desmond shakily staggered after Lucy, the door that she and Vidic always left through opening and for the first time since his captivity he went through those damnable doors. Beyond the cyan blue lighting was... a hall. A painfully drab, normal, unassuming hall._

_"... We're really getting out of here, huh._

_"Abstergo's got some fucked up interior decorators," he quipped, passing by an innocuous plant. It was all so barrenly normal, he couldn't stand it._

_They navigated the maze of halls and closed doors before Lucy slowed at a corner. "Stay close," she murmured; not that Desmond needed to be told twice as he pressed up behind her._

He shook his head to the memory, closing it and exhaling a hot, painful breath. Vidic was going to pay for this. _All_ of this.

That was all the inattention he needed, he brazenly walked into the room he had known so intimately for a week and did not realize another person was there until he heard the click of a safety. His head snapped to the side to find Cross pointing a gun at him. Shit. _Shit_.

"Give me the Apple," the man said.

Blood pumped him to dive for cover as an _entire fucking clip_ was emptied out. He jumped over the Animus, so integral to defining who he was now, and crouching behind it, pressed against the glass and metal, heartrate finally up and in his throat. Maybe Shaun was right, maybe he needed a gun. _Fuck_.

"Let's not draw this out," Cross said, the sounds of changing his clip sprinkling in Desmond's ear. "You've got nowhere to go and I've got a gun. Speaking of which... It's the twenty-first century and you're still running around with only a tiny knife for protection? It's stupid. Alright Desmond. Game's over."

He was close now, looming over the table. Cross was inside the reaction radius again, but Desmond didn't have the right angle, he was low, and Cross would know better than to repeat that mistake. What could he do, what could he _do_? Was there any way out of this, out of the mess he'd just put himself in? Fucked. He was so, totally, _fucked_.

Then,

"Not now... Not...now..."

… What? Desmond risked looking up, the hum of the Animus loud in his ears as he peaked over the table to see Cross staggering back, hands reaching vaguely to his head—_shit_, his temples, his temples were glowing _gold_. Was that...? His First Civ blood? Desmond's veins had glowed when he first got out of his coma, reacting to the Apple. Was this...? He put a hand to his courier pack, but the Apple was quiet. No, this was something else. This was the Bleeding Effect, at its terrible conclusion.

"_По-прежнему не,_" Cross grunted. Russian? "_Nyet!_ Get out!"

A long, guttural cry rang out, painful and aggressive and not the least bit sane, and Cross bolted.

"_What the hell is going on down there?!_"

Desmond ignored Vidic, realizing the danger. If Cross was having an episode, then no one was safe, he would react to any blind stimulus he could perceive. Malik talked about it, about when Altair studied the Apple for too long, the fevered reaction to what the Levantine Mentor saw. The first tenet of the Creed forced Desmond to follow, to prevent casualties.

"Get out!" Cross was shouting. "Get ouut! _Get ouuuut!_"

"It's Cross!" one of the guards said. "What's wrong with him?"

"Did the subject do that? What the hell?"

Cross ran blindly down the hallway, waving his gun around, bowling over security and the few labcoats left on the floor. Twice he shot wildly, shrieking in broken English and Russian. Nothing hit – yet – but Desmond knew it was only a matter of time, and he raced after him. Cross was a kindred spirit, in some way, locked up in the Animus, reliving lives, knowing what it was like to have multiple personalities running around in his head. Unlike Clay, however, he didn't go in knowing what could happen. Unlike Desmond, he never learned how to control the Bleeding Effect. Cross had nothing, not even support, only the lies of the Templars. He had to figure it out himself, pull himself together by any means necessary, and Desmond couldn't feel anything but pity.

A stray bullet broke through tempered glass, and Cross blindly dove through it, falling twelve feet into a cubicle barnyard. If he took any injuries he didn't feel them, getting right up and staggering down the artificial hall.

"Cross!" Desmond shouted from above, leaping down and giving chase. "Cross! Calm down! The Bleeding Effect will settle if you only _calm down!_ I'm trying to help you!"

"_Get out!_"

"They won't get out until you can learn how to close the partitions!" Desmond shouted. "I know what I'm talking about!"

"_На прошлой неделе!_"

Half blind with madness, Cross was no match for Desmond in the speed department – especially after living the lives of Connor and Ezio, the fastest ancestors he'd ever seen. Not even Altair was that fast. He tackled the crazy man to the ground, a tumble of limbs and appendages, Cross shrieking and screaming and firing up in the air, bullets breaking hanging lights or embedding in ceilings. Desmond grappled, pulling and grasping until he had the grip he wanted. He was surprised to see Cross crying, gold still in his temples.

"_Мы потеряли ребенка ..._" he moaned, finally beginning to still. "We lost the child, I lost my family, I lost everything. I'm a _Серьезные разбойником_, I've been used... I'm so... _Устали _..." His entire body stiffened, Desmond held his grip against another wild assault, but Cross' eyes cleared, slightly, and he looked around. "Fuck, not again," he muttered. "It doesn't help any more. It doesn't stop it. Warren, please... make it stop... I can't take much more of this."

His voice was hoarse from screaming, raw and broken and full of pain. Desmond could only do one thing.

"Then don't," he whispered softly. "This is the only mercy I can give you."

Cross stiffened at the foreign voice, but it was too late. Desmond shoved his hidden blade into the back, up and with a twist, a near bloodless death. Cross gurgled, trying piteously to shove himself away. Desmond loosened his grip, watched his fellow Subject try to get away.

"Fuuuuuck," Cross cursed. "This isn't how I wanted to go..."

"Nobody wants to go like this," Desmond said, sitting still, watching. "Nobody wants to... _go_, really, but this way you can go as yourself."

"Fuck you, Miles," Cross spat, blood ejecting from his mouth. "Fuck you and fuck the Assassins and fuck Orleov and fuck..." Energy bled out of him, literally, and he sagged to the floor.

"There's a way to create partitions in your mind," Desmond said, watching Cross's face slack, wide eyes darting to the Assassin. "Clay, Subject Sixteen, showed me how. It was almost too late, then, but let me show you now." Desmond got up slowly, moving forward in the most visible and nonthreatening way possible, and reached out and touched Cross's gold temples. He asked the Apple for a touch of help, and he felt the _pulse_, felt himself go to his island, the black skies of lacquered stone, the gates and shafts of light, and the code required, the commands that went into the different DNA. The island dimmed and he looked down to see Cross wide eyes, tears streaming down his face, and a smile on his lips before he died.

"... Rest in peace," Desmond said.

He got up and turned to see half a dozen security guards, guns drawn, gaping at the scene.

"Did you see that?"

"That glow... what the hell was that?"

"His temples, they were _gold_ and then they were _blue_ and..."

"Fuck this, I'm not paid enough for this shit!"

And, because the bastard just _wouldn't_ shut up, Vidic.

"_You... You killed him!_" his voice shouted over the intercom. Desmond ignored the old fart and made his way back to the elevator. "_Daniel was like a son to me, a sickly son, perhaps... But one full of promise. He accomplished so much... and so well. And now you've taken him from me! From us! Like the Apple. Like Lucy. _We want to help the world, Desmond._ To save it from itself! But you keep getting in the way. All our hard work, ruined. You're a fanatic. All your kind. Maintaining the erroneous belief that _we _are evil. That the work_ we _do is wrong. We_ enrich _lives here. We_ save _and_ transform_ them. But you... You just keep taking and taking what isn't yours! Enough is enough Mister Miles. I invited you here in the spirit of cooperation. But you've responded to my hospitality with only violence. I had hoped we might preserve you and further study your memories. But you're not worth the trouble. I hereby authorize the use of deadly force. Kill the bastard! And then bring me the Apple!_"

"Yeah, good luck getting your goons to follow those orders," Desmond said, glaring up at the camera. He got in the elevator and closed the door. "In case you haven't noticed, you don't pay them enough. Or maybe you don't _teach_ them enough, seeing as how they had no idea about the Bleeding Effect, or Those Who Came Before, or anything that would have _remotely_ prepared them for this confrontation. That's your problem, Vidic, you can't even trust the people you command."

There was no immediate response, and he took a breath, letting Cross' death wash over him, absorbing what he had done and acknowledging it. "Where's Vidic?" he asked quietly.

"_Fifth floor,_" Rebecca said, something in her voice. "_Desmond, what you did..._"

"Save it for after," he said quickly, "I can't really process it now."

There was nobody on the fifth floor, the ruckus down below giving everyone more than enough time to hide, or evacuate. The labcoats were all gone, security was nowhere to be seen. That was a trick, though, Desmond knew. Not all of the goons would be chased away by him killing the favored child. There was going to be a trap, he knew it. This whole building was one giant trap, and he had an ace in the hole for just this occasion.

One single, terrified secretary was cowering behind the desk.

"_Ti prego! Non capisco l'inglese! Non uccidermi!_" she cried.

Desmond switched to Italian. "I have no intention of killing anyone," he said gently. "I just have to talk to Vidic. Could you please open the door?"

The secretary pressed the appropriate button repeatedly, shaking before cowering under her desk.

"_Grazie mille_," Desmond said softly, knowing the woman would be traumatized for life, that nothing he said would change her from seeing him as anything other than a monster. He sighed and stood, leaving her alone. A pair of giant Abstergo doors slid open, through a hall to a grandiose office. Further details disappeared as his vision pinpointed to his father, and he moved towards him with heavy, purposeful steps.

"Dad," he said softly. William looked up, a flick of the eyes and little more, unwilling to give anything away in the presence of the enemy.

"Not so fast, Mister Miles."

The room snapped back to focus; Desmond saw four burly guards in Kevlar, guns hanging loosely in their hands. Vidic was behind his desk, still smarmy, still oily. All four guns lifted as one to point at him. "In case you hadn't noticed," Vidic said, "I'm the one calling the shots. Now give me the Apple."

This was it then, the last play. Desmond reached into his pack and pulled out the Piece of Eden. Its voices were whispering all across the chambers in his mind, telling him that these four were Vidic's personal guards, not paid flunkies but true believers in the cause, guards that would chase him to the ends of the earth. _Not innocent, no tenet_.

That was all Desmond needed to know.

"You want it?" Desmond asked, cold. "Fine. Here it is."

And he cast the geas.

Light poured from the Apple, thin bands of light flickering in and out as it took hold of the four minds in the room, all the guns moving jerkily to point, not at Desmond, but to Vidic. Faces twisted in shock, terror, not the least of which was the old fart himself. "Wait," he shouted, "No...!"

But Desmond knew what to do. Altair had studied it all his life to learn its secrets. Ezio had it reach into his very DNA to pass on instructions. Minerva and Tinia both wanted him to live through this moment, and while Desmond might have shown mercy to Cross, he had no mercy for Vidic and the torture he had put him through, put Cross through, put Lucy and Clay and god knew who else through. No, there would be no mercy for this scum, only the luxury of a quick death.

He glared at Vidic, thinking about everything that had brought him to this point: the kidnapping, the imprisonment, the emotional manipulation, the snide overbearing attitude, the mind-fuck done to Lucy, Clay's torture, _Cross'_ torture, the blind ambition, the domineering arrogance. Vidic was the _atenenyarhu_ that Connor imagined his enemies to be, he was the Al Mualim that Altair fought against, he was the Cesare Borgia that had stolen so much from Ezio. Warren Vidic was evil in the classic sense of the word. There was no need to waver, there was no need for indecision. There was only one thing to do.

Four guns fired, and blood splattered everywhere as the godawful mess of Vidic's head exploded, the corpse falling to the ground in a streak of blood, bone, and brain matter. The guards, loyal Templars and no innocents, were next, guns to their mouths and firing. It was a mess, but Desmond couldn't allow himself to register the slaughter he had just committed, instead putting the Apple away and moving to his dad.

"You never should have come here. You put everything on the line - for, what? So you could rescue your father?"

Asshole.

Desmond cut him free and helped his old man to his feet. "... Yeah." he said softly. "Rescue my father."

William looked at his son, his face was still closed off – probably always would be – but Desmond stepped closer and they hugged, a quick, tight, heavy embrace that said everything they needed to after a decade apart.

William stepped over the blood and reached out to the desk, grabbing the cubical key, and the two men moved out of the hallway.

Everyone was massed in the main lobby, security and workers both. They _seriously_ hadn't evacuated yet? Desmond felt the burn of the Apple in his hand, and he gave it a soft, simple instruction: _sleep._ Let them think this was a dream, let them have the hope of being healthy and whole after this. Let them believe... whatever they wanted to believe. Just... _sleep_.

There was a massive pulse of light, and everyone fell, fainted, in one awe-inspiring tidal wave of gravity. Outside, the entire block was asleep as well, everyone down on the ground, and Desmond walked his father calmly to the van, getting inside as Shaun immediately gassed the engine and drove out.

Desmond kept the Apple active, asking it to distract anyone who looked their way, making escape as clean as they could. Rebecca was already messaging the Italian from the night of their arrival, passing on the news and asking for help getting out of the country. A plane was already idling back at Leonardo International, expecting this, and word was slowly passed to the other teams about what happened. It was a straight shot to the airport, and Desmond released the hold on the Apple, exhausted.

They loaded onto the plane, the woman from before there and wishing them well, bowing her head to William and saying something Desmond chose not to catch before getting on the plane. Once they were in the air, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"I've been poking around a bit," Shaun said in a deliberately light tone, crossing his legs and adjusting his glasses. "Did you know that there are machines down there that make... well, manna."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Wizard manna or Biblical manna?"

A scoff was her response. "What do you think? Biblical of course. The Greeks called it ambrosia. The Indians, Amrit or Soma. Most cultures around the world refer to a divine food, though I'd say its taste is anything but."

William was incredulous. "You ate something that came out of a seventy five thousand year old machine?"

"And I lived to tell the tale!"

Desmond played along, happy for light topics. "So... what did it taste like?"

"Cardboard," Shaun deadpanned. "The taste of cardboard. Hardly the stuff of legends... Though I wonder if the first civilization didn't taste differently than we do."

"Maybe the flavorizer broke," Rebecca offered.

"Flavorizer? You've certainly got a way with words, Rebecca."

They couldn't maintain it after that, all three of them broke into hysterics. Even William had a wry grin on his face as everyone came down from the high of the mission. It wasn't a particularly _funny_ exchange of words, but all the stress just bled out of them as they laughed and laughed and _laughed_. Eventually it died down, someone got a bottle of wine, and they all cheesily toasted to their success. Rebecca fell asleep after only a few sips, having been up the longest, and Shaun gently guided her to a pillow on his lap, letting her catch up on her sleep before he, too, finally succumbed to exhaustion.

Desmond knew it would be hours yet before his endorphin's finally normalized, and he shifted repeatedly in his seat, still vibrating with energy. He glanced at his father, touchscreen out and once again plugging along with work. Who cared that he spent days captured? Even now the mission came first.

"Hey," he said softly, mindful of their sleeping companions. "You think killing Vidic set Abstergo back?"

"I doubt it. Sure, he pioneered the Animus, but they've had the technology for decades now. Plenty of other people can take his place."

"And Cross?"

"He was a loose cannon – I doubt anyone's mourning his death. I think these days he was more a symbol than an asset."

Desmond felt disappointment, humming in his throat. Did he do any good whatsoever?

William saw the look and lowered his pad. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I don't mean to dismiss what you did. But it's going to take a lot more than a couple of deaths to stop the Templars."

"I know, Dad, I know. Sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry."

They shared a wan smile, before Desmond asked the question he really wanted to know. "Did Vidic put you in an Animus when you were at Abstergo? They'd be able to search your memories and track you back here."

"Oh they definitely tried," William said with a wave of his hand. "But I made things difficult for them. You can resist, you can cloud up the transmission or just refuse to move. Eventually they would have gotten what they needed but still it would have taken them weeks."

… Good to know...? Would have been nice to know when he was captured, but then... "Vidic threatened to put me in a coma once."

William made the faintest of faces, distaste at the tactic. "It would have made you more pliable," he said, "But if the user isn't engaged, it's a mess. I know they've been working on ways to extract memories and let others sift through those memories. Maybe they're even analyzing mine right now. Maybe they'll find us, I don't know... What I do know is that we've got to get through that door."

Right. Mission first. Some things never changed.

Still, Desmond felt good, better than good, and he thought that maybe the hard part was over. Vidic... his threat had been looming over everyone for three months, and now he was gone. Cross was gone. It wasn't a major blow, not like he had hoped, but the pressure was lifted. One of the catastrophes hanging over everyone's shoulders was gone. All that was left was the key. And he was close... It was almost over.

God, what would he do once it was all over?

He snorted. That answer was obvious. But was it possible? After everything that happened?

He looked to his dad.

"Hey...so, uh," he stuttered. Great start Desmond, try that again. He cleared his throat. "When this is over… And assuming it all works out… I was hoping I could... you know... come home?" Yeah, that didn't sound terrible.

But William smiled, a bright, soft, gentle smile. "I'd like nothing more."

Hm. Good.

He fell asleep with a smile.

* * *

Six hours into the flight back he woke up, rested and relaxed. Stopping off at the bathroom and cleaning up, he saw his father was finally asleep and Shaun's lap suspiciously empty. He saw Rebecca behind a seat, curled around a laptop again, poking around something. Desmond sat cross-legged next to her. "Hey," he said softly, "I wanted to thank you. You looked up all that information to try and help me out, and you had my back. I didn't mean to scare you back there."

"I know," she said softly, hunching forward and stretching her back muscles before arcing the other way. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, still not totally caught up on sleep. "God, jet lag is gonna kill us for this," she muttered, rolling her shoulders and hunching again. She cast a sideways glance at him, face changing a little, before she lowered the lid on her laptop. Her headphones were on for the first time in weeks, music barely audible filtering out.

"So, what was it like being back at Abstergo?" she asked, trying to reach for something.

Desmond looked down at his hands, the weight of the last few hours reasserting itself. "For all the bluster, I didn't expect to get out of there alive. I know what I said," he added quickly, "and I figured with the Apple it would go the way I wanted but... It was fucking _Abstergo_, they held me hostage for a _week_ in that place, and those feelings... they don't just go away. Once I was in the building... there was all this tension. I could handle it because of all the time with my ancestors, they're much better at dealing with stress than me, but I was sure that something would fuck up. And it did. Cross had me dead to rights, there was no way I could get out of that. It's a good thing that Cross broke down the way he did. If he wasn't losing his mind, I'd probably be dead."

Her eyes darkened, and she looked away. "I guess he never really recovered," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

…?

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Hannah," she said, so softly as to almost be inaudible. "She was the one who found him, drunk in a bar and accusing people of being Templars. When he first came to us, he was exhibiting symptoms of the Bleeding Effect. It was real bad. He'd just go in and out at a moment's notice - no Animus required. Got a little violent too, sometimes. None of us knew what was wrong with him at first, not until we figured out he was reliving Tunguska. He was on meds to stop the hallucinations, but he never took them, I guess. It was because of him that we started looking into the Animus Project at Abstergo. It took a while and a bunch of therapy, but we thought we had it under control. Then... then he killed the Mentor and..." her voice disappeared, lost in the emotional trauma of the event. Had she been there? Desmond could only imagine the havoc the event would have caused, the power vacuum, trying to figure out what happened and why and how. He gave her time, and eventually she came back. "Once he went back over to Abstergo, though... who knows what they did to him."

"I still worry about that happening to me," Desmond confessed. "I mean, Clay taught me how to make partitions in my head, I can open and close them all I want, but... I know it's been six weeks for you guys but it feels like only a couple days for me. I'm not sure I'll always have control over it, you know? What if I start Bleeding again...?"

Rebecca shook her head, eyes bright and determined. "He was _raised_ in an Animus, Desmond. There's overexposure and then, there's... Daniel. Poor guy. That could never happen to you. We won't let it."

Desmond reached out and put a hand on her knee. "I know," he said with a smile, and she smiled back.

"Lady and gentlemen," Shaun said brightly, rousing voice even calling William up from the dead of sleep. Desmond stood and moved back to his seat. "I have the dubious privilege of relaying the standard Good news/Bad news. Which would you like first?"

"Not really the time for this..." William muttered.

Shaun was affronted. "Okay, okay. Sorry. So much for injecting a little pre-Christmas cheer into these otherwise dour proceedings. The _good_ news is that, far as I can tell, the Eye-Abstergo launch has been postponed – permanently. With Vidic dead thanks to dear Desmond and the Apple of Eden still safely in our possession, there's no way they'll make their date. I suppose there's always the chance they'll manage to retrieve another Apple and start the whole process over – but all of our intel says they've got no leads. We're safe from that particular threat – at least for now. The bad news we've got less than ten days to open the temple doors. Whatever's meant to happen on the twenty-first – and it's likely a whole lot worse than Eye-Abstergo – I think we'd all very much like to ensure that it _doesn't_." His face sobered. "Things are getting worse outside."

Desmond frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Every day for the past two weeks the sun has been throwing off larger and larger flares. Older satellites are starting to malfunction, I hear rumblings of recalling the crew on the international space station. There's already work being done as well to shield power stations and transformers on the ground. Not that any of it matters. This goes far beyond some brownouts... We all saw what's _actually_ coming."

"Do you know how it works?" William asked.

Shaun shook his head. "Look, I'm no physicist, but it's, it's something to do with the Earth's magnetic field. The flares and mass ejections disturb it, which appears to trigger seismic events. I've tried reaching out to people who might know better, but they all insist it's bunk. And I don't blame them. It sounds ridiculous..."

"I wish it was," Desmond muttered.

But Rebecca would not let the good mood Shaun had started with be deterred. "When this is all over, we should take a trip somewhere. Celebratory vacation!"

Desmond smirked. "Yeah," he said, "that sounds nice."

Shaun had the audacity to look annoyed. "Listen to you," he said, gesturing vaguely to the plane they were on. "Italy, Brazil, and the United States - all in the span of a few weeks - and you're complaining about not getting out enough?"

"Seriously, Shaun?" Desmond asked.

"No, not seriously," Shaun said with full on sarcasm. "Are you mad? Trust me - no one wants time off more than I do, right. Do you have _any idea_ how hard it is to crank those database entries out as fast as I do?"

"Not hard at all," Desmond countered perfectly, "given you have enough time to put in all the snarky side comments all the time."

Rebecca burst out laughing at the comeback, Shaun shocked at the overreaction, and Desmond quickly pulled out his phone, trying to remember the menus. He wanted a picture of this, to preserve seeing Rebecca this happy, remind her that it was possible when times got tough. Her eyes were closed, headphones still on as she contained her guffaws before settling into a serene smile, listening to her music and content down to her bones. Desmond snapped the picture, Rebecca heedless of the sound over her music, and showed the picture to Shaun. The Brit smiled, gesturing to his own phone, and Desmond bluetoothed the pic over.

They landed just over two hours later in Boston, and Desmond was shocked to see it was midmorning. Forget jet lag, it would take him forever to figure out what time zone he was in. Shaking his head, he kept his hood way down as William and Rebecca procured a truck instead of a van, and they began the five hour drive to Turin. Shaun kept to the back roads, Rebecca catching up on her sleep again and William permanently attached to his touchscreen. Desmond took the passenger seat, Apple at the small of his back and watching as the houses drifted by. His mind lost focus, drifting from one thought to the next, one memory to the next, content with the presence of his father behind him. In the blink of an eye it seemed they were in the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by towering pines, and it was midafternoon. No one had stopped for food; now that they were state-side everyone just wanted to get to the Temple as fast as possible. The sooner they got to Connor and the key, the sooner it would all be done, and even after their victory, everyone just wanted this _done_.

Shaun was intent on the road as he was intent on everything else, and Desmond couldn't quite help snapping another picture, thinking he'd bluetooth it to Rebecca if she was interested.

It was supper hour when they finally stopped at the entrance of the Temple, and everyone ducked quickly into the cave, following the now well-travelled path to the gate.

"Hey, Desmond," Rebecca said, "Didn't Subject Sixteen's-"

"His name was Clay," he interjected automatically. Clay would never be called Sixteen in his presence, any more than he would be called Seventeen.

"Sorry," Rebecca said quickly. "I was just thinking. Didn't Clay say Washington was a Templar?"

"No," Shaun corrected before anyone could say different, "No, he indicated that Washington came into contact with an Apple of Eden. But beyond that, it's all speculation. Furthermore, judging from the portrait referenced by Clay, the event occurred much later in Washington's life. Perhaps Connor wasn't even involved. It's very hard to know for sure. We'll just have to wait and see what - if anything – happens. We can all assume Washington at least hid it away, we hardly remember the tyranny of King Washington, do we?" Shaun said in full sarcasm. "Not like the supposed tyranny of King Obama."

"_Shaun_, don't be an ass!" Rebecca hissed, and it was so much like the old them that Desmond could only smile and let them fight about rhetoric.

William pulled his son aside. "I'd get that power source hooked up before heading back into the Animus - but it's your call."

It was the largest concession ever; giving Desmond the choice of the objective, and the Assassin smiled at the gesture.

"Power source first," he said. He took the key and put it in his pack, going up the steps to the right of the central hall they were camped in. The path was broken away, leaving Desmond to crawl along the ceiling via exposed rebar – or whatever the First Civ version of rebar was – and landing at the other end of the landing, following the path to a room with funky looking recliners.

Juno was there, filling the room with gold light, and golden holograms appeared at one of the recliners.

"_A new world approached,_" she said. "_One that was dark and cold. It would consume us. For we were flesh and flesh is frail. Though suits and shields might offer comfort – such adornments would not suffice... Not to save us all... So we sought to change what we were. In this manner we might thrive in a world made poisonous..._"

Juno watched as a copy of herself and a man moved to the recliner. The two touched each other’s arms, an intimate gesture that said more than Desmond ever wanted to know about the First Civ ghost, before the man took the seat. Juno kneeled next to her lover. "_It was Aita who volunteered to see if it might be done. Aita, my husband, my love._" And then, all at once, the guy, Aita, started bucking in the recliner, arms and legs jolting this way and that as the Juno hologram looked on in horror. "_In the end it changed him. Ruined him. He was made a prisoner of the machines. The body might survive – but his mind became brittle to the touch..._" The seizures seemed to last forever, Desmond watched as copy Juno became more and more distraught, even as her ghost's voice became more and more flat. "_He begged me for release. For days – for weeks – for months._" A weak hand struggled to rise, copy Juno taking it before placing her distraught face onto the chest of her lover, listening to his heartbeat. "_I pleaded with him to give us more time to find another way. But there wasn't one. Not for him. Not for us..._"

And then a knife was lifted, and Juno killed Aita in one sacrificial act of mercy.

The image faded, Juno offering no other comment, letting the moment hang, pregnant, in the air. Desmond began to understand the source of her hatred, her scorn. He had killed Lucy... the thought still brought agony to his mind, and he more than understood the temptation of succumbing to all those negative feelings – hell, he fell into a fucking _coma_ because he couldn't deal with it. Sympathy was the last thing he wanted to feel, and he left the room in haste, trying to put the new information aside.

The room was a dead end, but there was a level above, and Desmond climbed the orange pillars – so different than the normal cyan of the architecture here – and pulling himself around and finally up. The upper level was an observation deck of some kind, watching the room he was just in and then looking out over another. More orange features were there, and Desmond gauged the distance before leaping to them. Climbing it led to a third level, and he followed a narrow path to yet another room.

"_What is consciousness but a series of electrical impulses?_" Juno asked, her hologram reappearing again, walking down the hall and into the room, touching the walls intimately. "_And the body a vessel to hold these sparks. But it is weak. In time, it decays and crumbles into dust."_ She disappeared to emphasize her point, visually displaying the impermanence of life. "_We asked ourselves, then: what if it might be replaced – with something stronger. Something better. So we forged a new vessel. One that might endure._" She reappeared again, looking at the orange fea—shit, the orange banks, they were the machine Juno was talking about, the thing to store minds in. Fuck.

"_It proved easy enough to enter,_" Juno said. "_But to leave... To leave required something more. Something wrong... And so this too they abandoned_."

She disappeared again, only to reappear at the center of room, her face fixed with a curious expression. "_I wondered, though,_" she said, "_were they right to turn away..._"

"Did you guys see all that?" he asked.

"_Yeah_," Rebecca said. "_Fuck_."

"_Well, now we know that she's not a ghost_," William said. "_She's been locked down here. Not only are we powering up the gate, we're likely waking her up, piece by piece_."

"All the more reason to be careful," Desmond said as he exited the room. He climbed around more of the computer banks, disgusted with what they were, and finally landed on concrete. He was at the terminal, and he put the power cell in without comment, watching as a massive, incomprehensible bridge extended out from the shadows to connect to the gate. The path was laid before them, literally, and now they just needed to open the door.

When he got back to the camp, Shaun was lamenting. "I regret not asking you to hack into the Abstergo servers while you were there. A couple of well-placed relays and we'd be swimming in information."

Desmond shook his head. "We have everything we need."

"Yeah," the acerbic Brit retorted, "except the key!"

"We're close."

Shaun was skeptical. "How do you know?"

The question made Desmond frown, pausing to think why he had said it so confidently. "I just... do," he said lamely.

Rebecca was less confident. "I'm scared," she muttered, booting up the Animus. "What if we don't find the key? What if we do, but run out of time? What if whatever's down here doesn't work? I mean, what's changed? The First Civ tried to save themselves and failed. And this place is shut down and sealed up... Doesn't really feel like the sort of place we're going to find the answers to all our problems. Doesn't help that the people who brought us here are missing..."

Wait, what?

"I'm just worried this isn't going to work," she finished. "I don't want to die."

"Who's missing?"

"The team that set us up here during Sandy," Shaun replied. "We just got word. They disappeared."

Fuck. _Fuck_. One step forward. Two steps back.

He looked at William, seeing the blank face, completely closed off. His way of coping.

They ate a cold supper, and Desmond moved back to the Animus, sitting in and laying back.

William was there, leaning over, face slightly more expressive than normal. He reached out, putting a hand on Desmond's shoulder. "Home stretch, Desmond," he said. "I can feel it."

Encouragement? From his _father_?

Desmond at fourteen flooded his brain, being a father instead of a mentor, and he smiled. Closing his eyes and sinking into his ancestor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Badass Desmond; did you enjoy your Crowning Moment of Awesome?
> 
> Though, technically, the climax of his story is the next time he's out of the Animus, really, this is what the game was building to. Take a character that can only walk around in AC1 and make him bulldoze his way through an infested Abstergo vicinity without even a scratch and bodies at his feet. Obviously, given his character arc, we didn't make him kill too many people, but he was just amazing for the last twenty pages: from fixing Cross' Bleeding Effect to showing up Vidic to announcing his intentions and then carrying them through to quietly preserving a moment when Rebecca was finally herself. There really isn't much to say, the chapter basically writes itself.
> 
> Next chapter: Connor's life continues to spiral: the Sullivan Expedition.


	26. Sullivan Expedition

It was a hot August, yet Connor continued to do work around the homestead. With many of the recruits now building bureaus throughout the colonies, there were fewer hands to do all the little repairs that always creeped up with old homes. And the manor was, indeed, _old_. Windows needed replacement, which was expensive as they did not have a glass smith, new shingles after a bad thunderstorm dropped a heavy branch on the roof, causing a leak, a fire starting to smoke that required a chimney to be cleaned.

All these little tasks were distractions, Connor knew, but someone needed to do them, so he did.

He did not wish to think too much on the confused, tangled knot within him. As Dobby had said, sorting through things took time.

After the Battle of Monmouth, which _should_ have been a decisive win for the American forces, _Lee_ had been court-marshaled starting in Brunswick, New Jersey and ending in North Castle, New York. Connor had stood firm and solid as a tree, watching the proceedings, watching as officer after officer, staff and soldier, stepped forward to talk about _Lee_ and his incompetence in the battle, how his decisions had nearly had them _lose_ after all the hard work from Valley Forge. Anger at _Lee_ continued to grow, and the jury found that _Lee_ was guilty. This had made Connor smile, seeing that laws and justice _did_ work. But no one had said anything about how _Lee_ had put this whole plan into motion to discredit Washington. And because that would have been _treason_, that would have meant a _death sentence_, Connor was left unsatisfied that the punishment of the court was simply to relieve _Lee_ of command for one year.

Anger and hatred had _burned_, but Connor had simply turned and walked away. He had stated openly that he would kill _Lee_, and if he was truly an Assassin, it would not be in a fit of anger. It would be planned, it would be cautious, and it would be... after Connor had sorted through everything he felt about Haytham and Washington and betrayal. To go after _Lee_ now would be hot-headed and reactionary, and Connor _knew_ that that path would end in failure. So with a quiet farewell to Lafayette, he had returned to the homestead.

And kept busy.

Most evenings were spent in long, _long_ conversations with Achilles, trying to sort through the mess inside of him, but Achilles would always tire, and Connor helped the Old Man to bed without seeming to.

The week prior, Duncan down in Boston had come up with a girl barely fifteen years old. He had seen her defending some of the younger urchins and how she would not bow in her defense. So a new recruit had joined them. She was a handful, and Connor often visited Prudence, Ellen, Catherine, _and_ Diane to try and understand what she was going through. Idly, Connor wondered if Dobby should have stayed as she could help with any female recruits that arrived, but she was well connected in New York and best utilized there.

Connor had taken to visiting Big Dave, grateful for the _tamahaac_ that he had provided. He often found Norris there as well, sharing ore samples, asking for them to be crafted into small things to help with the mine. Or Myriam's hunting.

Still seeking distractions, Connor decided to visit the hunter who did so much for the village and to see if she needed someone to join her on a hunting trip. Being out in the vast forests might help him sort through a few things.

What Connor wasn't expecting was an argument when he finally arrived on hot afternoon.

"But Myriam! _C'est mangnifique!_"

"_No_, Norris, this is _horrible_!"

Connor walked to camp, surprised to see Norris and Myriam in such a loud argument. They got along so well.

"Is all well?" he asked, glancing between the two.

"It is perfect!" Norris beamed.

"It's _terrible_!" Myriam growled.

Connor blinked. "I do not understand."

"We must share this news, Myriam!" Norris smiled brightly. "We are going to have a child!"

"_Norris! Get out of here!_" the hunter shrieked, tears flowing down her face.

"Myriam..."

"Just... go. Don't talk about this, don't tell anyone, just _go_!"

"But..."

"_Now_, Norris," Myriam growled. "Before I say or do something we'll regret."

It seemed Myriam's displeasure had finally gotten through Norris's abundant happiness and the miner looked regretfully to her. "I promise, this is _good_ news," he said softly. Stepping closer, Norris hugged Myriam close, seeming to pour all of his love into the simple embrace. "I will come back tomorrow," he said softly. "We will talk then."

Myriam nodded, mumbled something about Norris maybe being able to _listen_, but she hugged back before gesturing for him to leave.

Once the miner was away, Myriam finally looked to Connor. "I'm sorry you had to see that," she sniffed, rubbing at her eyes.

Connor gave her a moment to compose herself. "You are both my friends," he said softly. "I am here for you."

Myriam glanced at Connor again, before she burst into tears again. "Oh, _Connor_," she sobbed. "What am I going to _do_?"

Shocked and completely uncertain what to do with such a strong woman crying, Connor guided her to a log and sat down by her. She continued to sob and, uncertain what else to do, he held her as his mother would have held him when he was a child. He rubbed lightly at her back and rocked her, a soothing motion that he remembered and only hoped it worked as well for Myriam.

After a while, Myriam settled, though tears were still falling, and she pulled back.

"_...sorry..._" she whispered.

"It is fine," he replied. He patted her back once more then set about getting dinner ready. He had often hunted with Myriam and knew the setup of her camp, and so he went through her supplies to get a light stew cooking over the fire. The silence settled around them as Connor cooked, and he let the stillness and quiet soak them, hoping that it would help Myriam as it helped Connor when he could reach it.

Stew cooked and dished out, Connor sat by the fire. "Do you wish to speak of it?"

Myriam sniffed. "I..." she sighed. "I'll admit," she glanced away, "Not sure if you'll understand. Women in your tribe are treated differently than 'round here, right?"

"That is true," he replied, watching her carefully. "Perhaps it is because I have an outside view that I might be able to see something you do not."

Myriam gave a wan smile. "Might be true. But I need _Norris_ to see that outside view."

"I do not understand."

With a heavy sigh, Myriam took a spoonful of stew. "How much you know of what a woman's job is? For us, not your tribe?"

Connor frowned. "Women are far more restricted," he replied. "And are often treated like lower beings, but not always." He shrugged. "The ways of the white man have always been excessively complicated and confusing."

Myriam gave a harsh laugh. "Oh, that's a good way to put it. Connor, a woman has no value if she isn't a virgin. If she's seen to be someone who has sex without marriage, she's labeled quick-like as a whore and therefore ready for a brothel or just worthless for marriage material. If a man chooses to marry a 'whore', he's accepting a lower station."

Connor remembered the overheard conversation between Prudence and Ellen about how a woman must keep her honor intact. He nodded. "I have seen and heard of this," he replied.

"And, once a woman marries, there are other expectations," Myriam said, staring at the ground. "A woman isn't supposed to work, and once she marries her only job is the house and the children."

"But this is not true here," Connor replied. "Corrine helps manage the _Miles End_, Catherine and Diana do the laundry of many to earn money, and Prudence manages the farm just as much as Warren and Ellen runs her own business."

"Maybe, but all of that is still _woman's work_," she spat bitterly. "Not work I'm fit for, nor do I want to."

Connor frowned. "I do not understand. Why would you be required to do such work?"

"Connor, I'm _pregnant_!"

"So?"

Myriam laughed hollowly. "Connor, I wish there were more men like you in the world," she muttered. "'s _worse_ if a woman has a baby and no husband. I _have_ to marry him to hide that we were sleeping together, and become a _damned_ housewife." She continued to stare at the ground. "How do I even know Norris wants to _marry_ me? That he won't feel trapped?"

To this, at least, Connor could give a low chuckle. "Myriam, are we speaking of the same Norris?" he asked softly. "The same Norris who has fallen in love with you because of _who_ you are, not _what_ you are? The same Norris who was so flustered he has difficulty speaking with you, even now having known you for years? The same Norris who, upon hearing that you bear his child, was ecstatic and wishes to share it with everyone?"

Myriam gave a soft chuckle. "Suppose you're right on that score. Norris won't care at all. Lord knows, he spends enough time here anyway." She looked across the fire to him. "But even if Norris and I are fine, town'll _know_ that this was out of wedlock. My 'honor' is stained." She looked down again. "I'll be judged."

Connor frowned, picking his words carefully. "Myriam, will the Freeman's judge you?"

The hunter chuckled. "No, been wondering when we'd get around to marriage."

"The Miles'?"

"No."

"Ellen?"

"Certainly not."

"Norris's foreman, Jacques? Big Dave? Godfrey and Catherine? Terry and Diana? Lance or his apprentices?"

"Well no, but..."

"Do any others matter if these people accept you as you are and do not judge?" Connor looked at her across the fire. "And those who do not know you, do you see them often enough to face their condemnation?"

"You make everything sound so simple," Myriam sighed. "'Excessively complex and confusing' indeed."

Connor looked down to his stew. "You are facing a difficult and terrifying moment in your life. Only you can make any decisions on what to do. And they are _your_ decisions. Every choice made has consequences, be they good or ill, and you must decide what will be the best for you."

"Well, and for Norris, too."

* * *

The following day, after his morning run, Connor was walking back to the manor and he paused in front of the church. With a heavy sigh, he sat on a shelf of rock across from the steeple and just studied it. Myriam's worries about judgement had been bothering him, and it all stemmed from buildings like this. When Connor had read the Bible, part of the practice Achilles had made him do to learn how to read and write when old almanacs were almost memorized, there was one theme that Connor had seen, particularly in the passages about the figure of Jesus. That was a theme of forgiveness. "Turn the other cheek" and other such passages. It seemed that Christianity tallied up all the things a person did in their life and took the balance as either positive or negative. But if a person was negative, all that was needed to reach heaven was to simply regret and be sorry. It was almost as if Christianity allowed people to be as horrible and cruel as possible, but only show sorrow and all was forgiven.

It was not something Connor could understand. He could almost see it with children. When Warren or Prudence disciplined Hunter for doing something wrong and forgave him once he started crying and showing that he was sorry. Or how Ellen handled Maria. But Connor failed to see how that would work for adults, who were far too good at rationalizing and hiding behind words.

But as contradictory as those readings were, it was in direct contrast to how church was actually run. Instead of preaching forgiveness and sorrow, the churches he'd visited screamed of hellfire and damnation. If one's balance in life remained positive, but there was so much as one negative deed, one was doomed to hell. And that seemed to be in direct opposition of the teachings of Jesus, from what Connor had read.

Once more the white man confused with words.

Myriam had good reason to fear judgement, for even if Father Timothy wasn't one to shout negativity, it was so commonplace in what Connor had seen, people _would_ be more likely to judge the huntress and perhaps scorn her as a result. And if this Christian god was for forgiveness, how could he forgive so easily?

Especially when Ratonhnhaké:ton had such difficulty forgiving himself for killing Kanen'tó:kon. Forgiveness was not _easy_.

"Connor?"

Blinking, he looked down from the steeple to Father Timothy. "Oh," Connor stood, "I am sorry to have disturbed you."

"No, no," Timothy smiled gently, waving it aside, "it's no bother. I've noticed that you tend to slow and stare at the church when you return from your morning runs. This morning you stopped."

"Your religion... is confusing," Connor replied, not wishing to get into the full depth of his thoughts on the matter.

"Yes, it is," Timothy replied, easing down to sit beside Connor. "I've been a pastor for near on forty years now, and I still come across things that confound me."

"Yet how can you teach a religion that you do not understand?" Connor asked, turning.

Timothy shrugged. "Doctor White doesn't understand everything about the human body, but he and that Jamie of yours still discusses it in letters. I doubt Miss Ellen Tanner knows every stitch or design in the world, but she's slowly passing it on to her stubborn daughter."

"So you teach what you understand?"

"And try to puzzle through what I don't with the congregation so we can work towards a larger understanding."

Connor smiled. "You truly are unlike other priests that I have seen."

"Too old for that fire and brimstone," Timothy replied, smiling softly. "But I think it's more than just religion that confuses you. You stick with your people's beliefs, do you not?"

Connor nodded. "It is... difficult to explain," he said, not wishing to get into how the Sky Goddess had given him his fate. "It is because of my beliefs that I have been set upon my path."

"And now you question it?"

"Not my path," Connor shook his head. "What I must do, what I work towards, that is and forever will be unshakable. Yet..."

"Yet?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a long sigh. He had spoken to Achilles a great deal about the death of Kanen'tó:kon, but the Old Man understood perhaps _too_ well, having had the Order die all around him. Connor wished to speak of his difficulties with more than just the Assassins, but the web of secrets... Ratonhnhaké:ton longed for the ways of his people where one simply spoke the truth plainly. But he understood the cost of the truth in the white man's world far too well.

"When I set myself upon my path," Connor said, looking up to the steeple again, "I had only one goal. To ensure the safety of my people. As war has brewed between the British and the Patriots, I decided that the Patriots were who I supported. I have helped where I can," and he would explain no further, "but I have been away from my people for a long time now. I returned recently to my village and..."

"And found that they supported the British instead?"

"My village is remaining neutral, but... Kanen'tó:kon," Connor looked down, the grief welling up inside of him yet again, his anxiety and regrets filling his chest and he locked his jaw to avoid it bursting forth. "He believed that the British would save our people. And he was correct in part, the Patriots will exterminate entire villages of my people if we side with the British."

Timothy nodded. "I'm reminded of great tragedies, both Greek and Shakespearean. As well as a few stories in the Bible, of two friends who chose sides that were diametrically opposed. None of these stories end well. It's why they are tragedies." The old pastor glanced at Connor. "In most of these tragedies, one ends up killing the other."

Connor's eyes misted, but he said nothing.

Timothy nodded again. "I know that Master Achilles gives you most of your guidance, as do your people, but I remain a willing ear to listen, in complete confidence."

"A healer of the soul?" Connor gave a wan smile, remember Lyle's words.

Shrugging, Timothy chuckled. "I'd never claim to be so powerful. Just a place of solace for when life gets turbulent."

Within the week another recruit, seventeen, arrived from Stephane in Albany. A tall, skinny black boy, who took one look at the old and withered Achilles, saw that he was in charge, and gave a large grateful smile. He and Duncan's recruit were soon getting competitive as they raced around the property.

And, to Connor's surprise, there was a fair bit of competition with him. The boy and girl both saw how far Connor ran each morning and were determined to match or surpass him. But since they didn't have the conditioning, the two of them rarely even kept pace with him, let alone make it as far as he did. The two seemed completely in agreement that Connor was the bar, and they had to surpass him. He was happy with the competitiveness to improve their physical feats, but he spoke for a long time to both of them about how theirs was an order that worked _together_. And only by working _together_ could great things be accomplished.

Feeling faintly fed up with them, Connor checked in with Achilles to see if the Old Man wanted anything, and got a list of things to pick up in the village. Connor gratefully took the excuse to leave the manor and headed first to Big Dave to check on a list of various things, then Ellen and how a good set of clothes for the recruits were going, and finally on Godfrey and Terry for an order of lumber that would eventually be used to repair and possibly expand the stables.

He was heading up back up the hill when he heard someone running up behind him, and after how long the anxiety of everything had been building since meeting his father, he did not think of where he was, he simply reacted, grabbing the arm that was about to grab his shoulder, and swinging, flipping the man over his shoulder onto the ground.

In the middle of the swing, he heard a distinct yelp that was easily identified as Norris, who was the person who ended up on the ground, laughing and smiling.

"My friend!" Norris laughed, completely oblivious and unperturbed at having just been flipped.

"Norris?" Connor asked, surprised that the French miner had even thought that running up behind Connor was a good idea. "What are you doing?"

"She said _yes_!"

Connor's anxiety melted away, smiling as brightly as Norris. "Myriam?"

"We are getting married!"

Both laughed brightly, as Norris twisted to try and sit up and Connor offered his hand.

A more feminine laugh walked up more sedately. "I told you not to touch him, Norris!"

Looking up, Connor was delighted to see Myriam, rifle still slung over her shoulder, walking up and smiling with ease, instead of the tension and sorrow he had seen the last time he had seen her. "You have decided?" he asked, still grinning.

"Yes!"

"Congratulations!" he smiled, pulling them both into a tight hug. "And congratulations on your child," he said more softly.

"Come, Connor," Norris started to pull them both along. "Without you, I never would have had a chance with Myriam. You must join us as we share the news!"

With Norris practically dragging them along, Connor turned to Myriam. "You are certain?"

"Yes," she replied. "Norris and I have talked. A lot. A real lot. He doesn't want a housewife, he wants me."

The first stop was to Father Timothy, who was soon smiling as happily as Norris and Myriam and Connor. He pulled out a small book and started asking about dates. It would need to be soon, for Myriam wanted to get one more hunting trip in before she "took time off to enjoy being a newlywed," and then went back to work. September seemed to be the best time. As they were discussing, Godfrey and Catherine came in, seeking father Timothy to read a letter for them that they had received.

"We are getting married!" Norris shouted, still holding Myriam's hand.

"Oh, congratulations!" Godfrey shouted back. "Oh, a wedding!"

Once a date was chosen, Norris dragged Connor and Myriam all across the village, sharing the news and discussing with various people what was needed, and constantly asking Myriam what her opinions were. Soon everyone was in a hurry to get things done, and everyone in town was pitching in. Warren and Prudence were delighted to handle the food and catering, while Ollie and Corrine insisted they handle the banquet. Big Dave pulled out a pair of rings he'd smithed for the pair months ago, simply knowing that his best friend would eventually marry Myriam and Ellen seemed torn between being thrilled to design a wedding dress, and sullen, remembering how her own marriage went.

While the town was always lively, it seemed to almost explode in life as everyone started to pitch in for the marriage. Achilles soon trudged down the hill to start taking charge of things before everything got out of hand, making the sensible decisions and curbing some of the more enthusiastic additions that were too costly and outlandish.

Timothy pulled Connor aside at one point. "Might I have a word? There's something you'll need to do."

"Of course!" Connor replied, still smiling brightly. "What would you have me do?"

They walked to the rectory and Timothy sat them down around a pot of tea. September was still very hot, but the weather was rapidly starting to cool. "Norris," Timothy explained, "is a stickler when it comes to tradition. I think he's compensating since he knows his marriage is anything but traditional."

Having seen Dr. Lyle often with Myriam, checking her health, Connor knew that was very true.

"One of the traditions," the pastor continued, "is that the father gives the bride away. A last chance to escort a member of his family before she becomes a part of another family."

Connor refrained from frowning at that logic, which seemed to view women as property. He knew that it was different cultures and he truly knew little of the ceremonies of the settlers. "What has this to do with me?"

Timothy sat back, sipping his tea. "Myriam knows not where her father is. Indeed, she doesn't care to. But she says that you helped her in a time of need like a father would. So she and Norris are hopeful that you might act his part at the ceremony."

Nerves fluttered in Connor's stomach. "I am not familiar with your wedding customs."

"No worries about that," Timothy chuckled. "We'll be having a rehearsal. A practice version, if you will, the day before. Norris knows French weddings, Myriam's never _been_ to a wedding, and I only know the English ceremony. We're all working around it."

"Then... I would be honored."

"Also," Timothy looked a little guilty. "_Everyone_ wants to come. It seems there was..." he scowled, "a _bet_ on when the two would get married. Everyone wants to show up, but our church can't hold them all. Do you think Master Achilles would mind... if..."

Connor gave a warm smile. "I think the manor has plenty of room. And being wed under the sky seems more fitting for both of them."

"Indeed."

When the middle of September came, everyone was ready for the wedding, and almost the entire town showed up at the manor. Lance's folding chairs were brought out in force to give everyone a seat, the view of the small cove was picturesque, with leaves just starting to change color. Ellen had almost been worked to the ground, both in making Myriam's dress, but also several families wanted repairs to their Sunday best for such an occasion.

Myriam still had bouts of extreme nerves and anxiety, worried about how her life was about to change and how she didn't _want_ things to change for her. Connor, very familiar with dealing with his own anxiety, helped her with long conversations about what was expected of women, versus what actually happened to those in town. Ellen also added her own thoughts, particularly after Myriam had nearly burst into tears again during a fitting and having sent for Connor to talk her through her latest case of cold feet.

Connor had to admit, the ceremony for a Christian wedding was pretty, with words of devotion and love, and commitment. While much of the underlying concepts, Connor may not have agreed with, particularly when it was explained where they came from, the ceremony itself was, in its own way, spiritual in joining of souls. Connor knew that there were marriages that weren't good, one need look no further than Ellen, who was constantly wiping her tears away, but watching Norris and Myriam vow to love and support each other for the rest of their lives...

Perhaps this Christian ceremony was good, despite its poor history.

While not her father, Connor was indeed honored to deliver Myriam to Norris. Despite years together, the two were finally letting their commitment be open and known, and for Connor to walk down the aisle made him feel like a part of their coming together. Particularly since he didn't see himself as having done much to bring the two together, despite how they both spoke of him. Walking by her side, he felt a sense of pride, though he could not explain why.

The reception at the inn was lively, and both Myriam and Norris could not be separated. When they finally sat down, Connor walked over to offer his gift to them.

"We can't thank you enough, _mon ami_," Norris grinned, holding Myriam's hand close.

"Yes, our thanks to you, Connor," Myriam smiled brightly, "for all you've done for us."

"I have done little," he replied. "I have a gift."

Both smiled brightly.

"Wampum are considered very valuable amongst my people, every bead and thread being part of what is being told," Connor explained, slowly unwrapping his bundle. "Wampum are used for treaties, or to mark a monumental occasion. I can think of no other time that needs a wampum than such a wedding as yours." The wampum was a pickaxe crossed with a rifle, beaded in blues and whites and greens, and smaller details of the story of how they came together told in the small beads and threads.

"Don't know what to say," Myriam said softly, carefully running her hand along the belt. "Connor, this is too much."

"It is your story."

"_Merci, mon ami_," Norris said. "Truly, there are no others like you in this entire world."

Myriam leaned over and kissed Norris thoroughly. "Let's dance again!" she breathed.

Norris happily complied.

Smiling, Connor made his way over to the Scotsmen, already deep into the spirits that Ollie and Corrine were offering.

"And my little brother Joseph," Godfrey was laughing, his cheeks bright red, "he tossed him in the river!"

Diana offered a bright smile to Connor as he approached. "Connor! We were just recalling our weddings, back in Scotland."

Knowing the fondness for drink, Connor smiled. "Spirited events, I take it."

"Spirited?" Catherine asked, leaning against her husband as she lost her balance. "More like brawls than unions, they were!"

Terry scowled, though with humor. "Callin' Joe 'little' is like calling me Big Terry," he gestured at his height, easily one of the smallest men at the gathering. "Boy's a bloody mountain!"

Godfrey laughed some more. "My younger brother had a blow-up with one of Terry's cousins," he explained. "A minor disagreement about some lass's dance card. I'll just say Terry's cousin sobered up right quick when it was over!"

Another round of loud laughter. "Poor boy!" Diana giggled. "Sittin' there soppin' wet on a stump while Joseph spun 'round with the object of his affection!"

Connor ignored how the woman in the tale was an "object."

"Was good for him," Terry laughed his humorish scowl gone with another sip of his drink. "Taught him good things don't come easy!"

There was more reminiscing, weddings of people Connor had never even heard of, let alone met, all with the same lively laughter. When the Scotsmen started to get too tipsy, Connor politely retreated, sliding around Myriam and Norris as they danced by again.

He found Ellen and Dave sitting at a table, Dave's cane leaning against it.

"Hello, Connor," Ellen greeted. "Enjoying yourself?"

"I am," Connor replied, sitting with them. "It is nice to see everyone together and happy."

"Yeah," Dave said with a faint grimace. "Last time we all came together was because of my stupidity."

"And you faced it," Connor replied quietly. "You faced your mistake and have become stronger for it."

Dave nodded, then gestured to Myriam and Norris's spirited dancing. "Look at those two kids, it's a lively sight." He smiled. "Norris is one of my best friends and he couldn't have found a better woman for him. You know he had me make up wedding bands months ago, he just didn't have the nerve to ask?"

"That does not surprise me," Connor replied. "When he first was trying to talk to Myriam, he had great difficulty."

"I can only imagine," Ellen chuckled.

"Still. Proud of him," Dave smiled. "Finding a bit of peace in the world. That's a rare thing."

Ellen nodded. "Very true. Sometimes people are just right for one another. Norris and Myriam are a match made in heaven."

Dave turned a sly grin over to Connor. "Or a match made by Connor, isn't that right?"

Having faced this a lot that day, Connor just let out an exasperated sigh. "I only helped Norris muster his courage. The rest came naturally."

"Always so humble," Ellen giggled.

The festivities continued.

But just before Myriam and Norris made their discreet disappearance, Ellen stood by the fire.

"Excuse me, everyone! May I have your attention!"

Slowly, everyone turned, glasses and cups ready in case another toast for the happy couple was about to be given.

"Thank you," Ellen said, glancing down. "I won't keep you long. I would like to present something to Connor. And all of you really." She gestured and Dave limped over with a bundle that she slowly unwrapped. "I once said I'd find a way to show my gratitude for your courageous actions in my defense," she said, her eyes dark with memory. "And this is what I give you today."

Unfurled was a flag, one third in green with many golden stars in a circle, the rest cut in half, with white above and blue below.

"This flag is a symbol of our strength and unity," she said. "White for peace that we all sought when we came here. Blue for freedom, the foundation of our peace here. Green for the fertility here, of land and people that always come together and keep growing peace. And gold for the justice we've all found. A star for each of our founding members of this village." She looked around, blushing, before looking at the flag again. "I would hope you'd all be proud to fly it high above your homes and shops. I'll happily make one for each and every one of you if you so desire, but _this_ one," she stepped forward. "This one is for you, Connor."

Distinctly misty eyed after such wonderful day, Connor took the flag and held it high, knowing that this would fly above the manor, a symbol to all that people of any color could come and live in harmony. Everyone cheered.

He turned, eyes still watery, to Ellen. "Thank you," he said softly. "So much of this is possible because of _you_ and everyone else, not me."

"You're too humble," Achilles said, leaning heavily on his cane. "Just accept it without argument."

Connor could only nod, wetness leaking from his eyes despite his best efforts.

During Ellen's words, Norris and Myriam had disappeared, so Connor turned to the Old Man. "Let's go home."

* * *

Word arrived of a battle in Rhode Island. It was the first French-American campaign, but the British had won. One of the British strategies since the start of the war had been to occupy the major ports of the colonies and work their way inward. It was why Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and even Charleston down in South Carolina had been scenes of battle. But Newport, Rhode Island was also a busy, busy harbor.

Located on the actual island of Rhode Island that gave the colony its name, Newport was sheltered from the Atlantic and was easy to get to in the Narragansett Bay and then deeper inland to Providence and other towns along the bay. The British had started their occupation right at the end of '76, and to say that they were harsh was an understatement. Several redoubts had been built and occupied, using supplies from local inhabitants of the island, food was taken from the locals, animals and produce were taken, and years of town records just vanished, to be kept elsewhere since the inhabitants were not to be trusted. Houses were chopped up for firewood and the locals who lost their homes had been dealing with the harsh New England winters on their own if they didn't flee.

But with the French fleet arrival, it was decided that it was time to take Newport back. General Sullivan and General Greene, both natives of Rhode Island, were sent to gather militia and Lafayette arrived with two brigades of hardened veterans. Sullivan had difficulty recruiting militia, what with harvest season starting to come up, was no surprise, and Sullivan was less than discreet with his dislike of the French Comte d'Estaing. French pride made d'Estaing very offended.

D'Estaing managed to blockade Narragansett Bay, and the British were panicked and outgunned, thus the British started to sink their own ships. What was a good plan faced delays after delays and frustrations, fell completely apart when British ships were spotted of the southern coast of Rhode Island. The Comte quickly gathered his troops to fend off the British navy, promising he'd be back. But before his return came the hurricane. Gales blasted both the British and French Navy, breaking masts, rudders and bowsprits, while the American forces entrenched north of Newport were buffeted by the winds for two days. Lafayette, with General Green, John Hancock, and Paul Revere were hunkered down with their men, weathering it as best they could.

Disheartened and with morale dropping, many of Sullivan's men started to return home, so Sullivan had no choice but to march his men forward to start putting Newport under siege, hoping for d'Estaing's return to finish the job. But d'Estaing's fleet was so damaged, they had to retreat to a safe harbor. Boston. Sullivan sieging Newport with troops melting away and _depending_ on the French, was understandably angry, and sent Lafayette to Boston to at least get the French troops. The seventy mile ride took Lafayette seven hours, while Sullivan started falling back with what troops remained to a better position. The British pursued, intending to push the Americans off the island. Battle started with eighteen hundred Hessians against a tiny three hundred Americans, forcing a retreat despite being able to slow the British. British ships along the western coast of the island poured cannon fire across the lines, the Hessians surged across the swampy valley, but the Americans kept repulsing each attack. Indeed, one of the most embattled regiments was a Rhode Island regiment that had over a hundred former slaves fighting side by side with white Rhode Islanders.

The shelling and fighting and repulsed charges lasted until evening. The battle had ended in yet another draw, with no clear victor other than the fact that the Americans had faced the British toe-to-toe and not backed down or been defeated. With no sign of d'Estaing coming any time soon and word from Washington that Clinton was sending reinforcements, Sullivan had no choice but to retreat. Lafayette had returned after another long day in the saddle, to help with evacuating the American troops from the island.

Blame was being spread across both sides by the French and the Americans, and Lafayette expressed great frustration in his letter about it all. It _should_ have worked. But the delays, the hurricane, the damage of the French ships, the hot tempers of both Sullivan and d'Estaing, all conspired to yet another draw. Lafayette expressed that it was perhaps the most hard-fought battle he'd seen.

Another result, was that Lafayette was returning to France. The young Frenchman was unhappy with how things went, and wished to return to his home country to garner more support with cooler heads. Though he was currently ill, he hoped to be sailing back to France sometime that winter.

And winter was coming. Temperatures were dropping almost with every leaf, and two recruits arrived from Philadelphia from Jamie. One a man in his forties, another a woman in her thirties. Their age was a breath of fresh air after dealing with the two teenage recruits, and their experience in Philadelphia, where so much politics had played out, provided some sharp lessons for the younger recruits.

The new year brought news that the redcoats had taken Savannah Georgia, beginning the southern campaign that had been rumored for months. Connor worried at the news until he reminded himself that he no longer cared about the war. About Washington.

It wasn't true of course, but he tried to convince himself regardless. The two recruits, Nora and Joseph, fought tooth and nail with their competitive nature, and were both determined to be the best. They were soon joined by a young urchin from Dobby in New York, a boy of native blood who knew nothing of his heritage, save that he was a Red Feather. The child was wide eyed to see another who looked like him, and even at eleven he followed Connor incessantly like a young chick. Achilles looked on with a devilish smile, saying nothing but giving the impression that Connor should feel like this was some kind of divine comeuppance. Surely Connor was not so bad as a child? Connor translated the boy's name to his native tongue, and his best approximation of Algonquian, but neither sounded familiar to the child, and he was happy to stay Red Feather. Nora and Joseph were happy to teach the child everything they knew – precious little, all things considered, and with three children running around Connor's hands were full. William the forty year old printer took over when Connor was beside himself, but Anne was of little help with children, looking at them with a pain that reminded the young native of Prudence. He quietly set her over to help the farmers in hopes of helping her, while William was given the task of looking over and teaching the accounts to the three children.

His morning runs remained chilly, the teens and the child struggling to keep up and always perturbed when they passed on his way back. The village took the people coming in and out of the manor all in stride, Ellen delivering new clothes for little Red Feather and saying it was nice to see the lonely old house full of life.

"The two of you," she said one afternoon, "You and old Master Davenport, you're so focused on other people, it's nice to see some people focused on you. If you ever feel like new curtains, let me know. I just made a huge delivery to New York again, I can spare the money to make you a new set."

"That is hardly ne-"

"Of course it is," Ellen said. "I wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for you. It's the least I can do."

By February it was Hunter's birthday, and the Freemans invited Connor and the rest of the manor to celebrate, along with Oliver and Corrine and Ellen and Myriam. Given how shy Prudence was around new people it was an event, and Connor watched the Old Man as he smiled gently at the four year old boy who ran about the house, giggling at his new dolls and clothes and toys. Red Feather and the child hit it off immediately, a match made, "either in heaven or hell," Warren said as he watched the two. The women all laughed, Corrine sharing several stories of her children and Ellen talking about Marie when she was young. Warren boasted to Achilles and Connor and Oliver, while the teens were clearly bored out of their minds.

Connor, for his part, marveled that Hunter had grown so large so quickly. He remembered the day of his birth so clearly, Prudence in the snow, the harried ride to find Dr. Lyle, and before: touching her belly, feeling the child kick before he even drew breath. Did life truly change so fast? Had he ever been that small? Had his _ista_? Haytham?

The thought of his father that small, being held by his _rakshótha_, hit him hard, and he sat perfectly still in his seat, trying to puzzle through it. Haytham had been ten when Edward was killed; and ten when he had first killed. To be scarred so badly... He looked at Red Feather, wondering what happened to make the child remember so little of his heritage – he did not even know what tribe he was, would that leave him scarred, too? Was Connor any less scarred, having seen the death of his mother and killed his first man at thirteen in berserk rage? Did he have any right to be at this celebration, with the blood of his best friend on his hands, with _Lee_ still alive? So often he said that evil should be confronted whenever it was seen, or else what did that make the witness – but what was he doing now but leaving evil out there, uninhibited, while he did nothing.

Anxiety turned to sickness, and he made his goodbyes early, powering back to the manor and moving down to the hidden root cellar, working on the practice dummy and trying to ease the pain in his chest. He worked until well after dark, and when he at last exhausted himself he looked up to see Achilles watching from the stairs, face in silhouette, before moving back up the steps. Connor mutely followed, realizing he was smelling Anne cooking and listening to William teach the children to read upstairs. Achilles was in his room again, and they played through a long, complicated game of fanorona.

Achilles still beat him.

"You're getting better," he said. "You are finally beginning to see the chains of consequences that result in your actions."

"It does not feel like it," Connor said softly.

"It is sometimes very hard to see progress when one has set one's goals so high above oneself," Achilles replied. "You reach for no less than perfection, and every failure you perceive presses you to push harder and harder. What you do not realize are the heights you have climbed in your struggle for that perfection. Your mother would be proud."

The words were soft, and so out of the blue Connor did not know how to react, staring at the Old Man for a long time.

"... How did you meet her?" he asked, uncertain if he would get an answer.

"By Kesegowaase," Achilles replied. "She was in Albany at the time, trying to get people to understand that there was a dangerous man named Edward Braddock who needed to be dealt with quickly before her people were massacred. Kesegowaase offered to send word to me, but she was not a patient woman, and left to deal with it herself. By the time I arrived to see what we could do the Braddock Expedition had already come and gone, and she appeared out of the woods wishing she had waited for us. She gave us information of Haytham Kenway, and a desperate need to go back to her people. We offered to escort her, but she refused to allow anyone in her valley. We supplied her for the trip, shared what information we could. She said she counted us allies, and that she would speak well of us to her people. Many Haudenosaunee allied with us in the war, but it ended badly for everyone."

Connor gave the Old Man a moment to collect his pain, too respectful to pry at that injury ever again. "You only met her once?" he asked softly.

Achilles offered a wry smile. "Once was enough to know the measure of a woman like her. I daresay Kenway thought the same. She was a spitfire, honorable and severe, resolute and determined and unbending once a decision is made, principled. I am certain she was an excellent mother."

The fire did not fill his vision, instead Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered her alive, standing in the eastern door of the longhouse, in silhouette, asking what he was up to; of holding him on her back as she worked the fields, of the feel of her hands and the scent of her hair. A smile graced his face. Pleasant memories.

That night he asked the children to share what memories they had of their parents; Nora thinking of soap and rough cotton, Joseph of the sounds of songs in fields, and Red Feather a dim memory of cool hands when he had a fever. The children all bonded with the memories, and William smiled at the cleverness of the exercise before sharing terrifying stories of his own parents. Anne left early.

As February closed Red Feather and Hunter became inseparable, while Nora and Joseph continued to compete and Anne and William taught everyone even as Connor taught them about the Order and the Creed and the complexities of the world they lived in. It was agreed that the teens would learn a trade to supplement their skills, and it took little thought to send them both to the Freemans for work on the farm and to keep an eye on the irascible Red Feather. While they were out of the house Connor and Achilles instructed Anne and William. Connor had little trouble teaching the printer, but Anne seemed to want instruction exclusively from Achilles. The Old Man said little when the young native pressed, only saying, "We share the same pain," and leaving it at that.

* * *

The weather warmed, and as the few inches of snow melted Myriam came back from the woods, eight months pregnant and finally unable to hunt. She was as volatile as a bear, clawing at anyone who dared cross her as she moved painfully from one home errand to the next. She came back with enough furs to last for several months, to make up for the inevitable time lost while the child was first born – a fact she not like one bit and only added to her moodiness. Norris was terrified of the coming birth, and they practically lived at Mile's End with Oliver and Corinne, the aging couple reassuring to both of them. Norris and Big Dave were seen together every day at the smithy, Norris giving details on some kind of present that only they knew of. Prudence generously – and somewhat painfully – donated Hunter's cradle to Myriam and Norris, saying that it was too hard for her to have another child and she was more than happy with her beloved Hunter. She cried deeply, finding it difficult to part with something that held so many memories, and her willingness to do so moved Norris to tears, Myriam speechless and only able to mutely shake her head in acceptance. Ellen had a string of baby clothes, hand-me-downs from Marie, but one special gown that she said was for the christening. Catherine and Diana had their own donations, and soon Myriam was growling at the world, unable to come to face the fact that she had to do something as womanly as giving birth – scared to the core about her life changing.

April was cold and rainy, and word came from the Assassin Council in France that Lafayette had returned to Paris only to be imprisoned for disobeying his king to go off and fight a war. It was only for a week, Mirabeau reassured, and the Marquis was celebrated by _everyone_ as a hero; Benjamin Franklin, the famous Colonist staying in France to persuade them to join the war, delivered a gold-encrusted sword commissioned by the Continental Congress itself, and the king finally demanded an audience with the audacious boy. Mirabeau said Lafayette impressed the king, lauding the strategies against the British and placed the Marquis back on the dragoons. The boy was now using his position to lobby more support for America, and that the French Assassins would offer assistance if the American Assassins wanted it. The offer plucked at Connor's heart, the betrayal of Washington still hurtful and uncertain how he should reply.

Even after eight months he still did not know what to do about his feelings. Washington was a man of integrity and principle, even after everything else Ratonhnhaké:ton still thought that was true. He had seen the condition of Valley Forge that terrible winter the previous year – and that had been a mild season! He understood the deep and even desperate care for his men that Washington held, and his cunning political manipulation in order to get the supplies and assistance he needed. Connor had watched Washington persuade and equivocate and nudge and bargain with the indecisive Continental Congress, garnering allies and refuting enemies with his actions as much as his words. He was...

He was a good politician.

Perhaps that was why it was so hard for Connor. Sam Adams was a good politician, too, and as much as Connor liked the man there was an inherent duplicitous nature to the old radical, forever focused on his political agenda and pushing his message out to anyone who would listen. Washington was not nearly so manipulative, nor as off-putting, but he was still cut from the same cloth, and perhaps that was the mistake that Connor had made: expecting Washington to remain that principled man he thought the commander was under the circumstances he was in. Paying, feeding, supplying, and commanding an army all at once; bowing to contradictory orders from the Congress; appeasing all the factions that existed in the army itself... Something had to give. Some principle or facet of honor had to break in order to just stay floating.

But...

Why did it have to be at the expense of Ratonhnhaké:ton's people? Why were the Kanien'kehá:ka, indeed all tribes, sacrificed to make the Congress happy? Why were landed white men the only people of value in this nation they were trying to build? What made them so special as to be above all others: Achilles, Surry, Ratonhnhaké:ton, Ellen, even Mrs. Martha Washington?

"It is the ignorance born of privilege," Achilles explained one night over a game of fanorona.

"I do not understand."

"You would not," Achilles said, "Because your people do not believe in privilege. You earn your positions starting from childhood as chiefs and clan mothers, and you do not own things in an effort to measure your status. Europeans, however, are obsessed with rank and order and hierarchy. Everything must be grouped, like with like, perfectly segregated and easily identifiable. Whether they know it or not, the colonists rank everything and everyone by the privileges they are afforded. The people in power are, as you say, landed white men, and they are naturally inclined to grant those privileges to those who look, sound, and act like themselves. Originally the slaves here were indentured servants, or Irish who would not convert, but it was easier to identify a slave if his or her skin color was radically different. Women have been cursed since the Bible to be subservient to men and it will be hundreds of years still before anyone can even consider the contrary. Your people live in the woods in stick huts and dress in animal skins. There is no 'like and like' between your people and the colonists, and so you are collectively written off as savage barbarian heathens, to be wiped off the face of the earth to make way for people who _really_ know how to 'use' the land."

"But why do they not see that?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "Why do they not realize that they are favoring but a small fraction of the world that they live in?"

Achilles gave a short, bitter snort. "Because they fear what they do not understand," he said simply. "Landed white men will not understand women, cannot understand natives, and choose not to understand slaves. It is too much work to understand that they are a minority of the world – and even if the blessed few did realize that, they fear the very idea of being without power, and so they cling to it and pass it to those who understand what that power means. It is the way of the world, and I was a fool to think I could change it here. We all were."

Connor turned twenty-three on April fourth, and twenty days later, Connor saw Dr. Lyle dashing out of his house during his morning run with his bag and jogging to the Mile's End.

Myriam was in labor, then.

Connor finished his exercises, knowing he had the time, and passed the three children (again, the teens were absolutely irate) in a light jog to the inn to see if there was anything to be done. Before he even opened the door, Norris was shoved into his chest by a politely hassled Oliver. "Oh, Connor! Excellent, keep him busy, will you?" His plea was punctuated by a shrill shriek upstairs, Myriam, and Connor watched as Norris paled all the way to his lips and swaying on his feet.

The young native pulled Norris to the Freeman farm first, asking after Warren and Prudence what to do. Warren was of little help, he had enough wits to stay with his wife, and suggested the lumberers. Godfrey and Terry were more than happy to hear the birth was happening, and broke out the rum to keep Norris occupied. Not particularly comfortable to see the three men get so drunk, Connor left them to their early celebration and moved up instead to see Big Dave and ask after the crafting that he and Norris had been set over for the last two months.

Big Dave was not there, however, but rather across the way at the Tanner house, Ellen and he sitting just outside her door and talking quietly.

"Yes, Connor?" Big Dave asked, a sparkle in his eye.

"Myriam is in labor," Connor said softly. Ellen perked. "Norris is with Godfrey and Terry to... celebrate, but I know he wanted to present his gift the day of the birth. Is it ready?"

"Very nearly," Dave said, getting up and grabbing his cane. He gave a long, soft look to Ellen before the two shared a nod and he and Connor moved back to the smithy. "All we needed was some wires," he was saying. "I don't have the tools for that, we had to order in, but we were able to make everything else, and all that's left is to string it together. Right in here." Hobbling first into his house and then into his smithy, Big Dave pulled out a wood box and hoisted it to the table. "Finished it a few days ago."

"Thank you," Connor said softly, taking the box and backtracking to the lumberers. Norris was already much more... relaxed in his cups while the Scotsmen had barely even started. Norris took the box with a slurred "_Merci_..." and the young native left the miner to the tender care of Godfrey and Terry. With little else to do, he left the family to their birth and went back to the house, expecting to hear news in the next few hours.

By lunch the manor had heard nothing, Achilles reassuring Connor that long births were more than normal. Anne mumbled something similar before disappearing to the root cellar to beat at the practice dummy with all of her might. William and Connor worked the children through their reading over the course of the afternoon, Nora had a natural skill for reading and Joseph for understanding, making the pair very successful, while Red Feather dutifully learned his alphabet and their corresponding sounds. When dinner came and went with no word from the inn, Ratonhnhaké:ton could wait no longer and went down to Mile's End to hear what had happened. Oliver and Corinne were both in the tavern, behind the bar and talking quietly. Norris was there, stone sober with his box in his hands, and lumberjacks with tense expressions on their faces. On the far side of the room Father Timothy was leading a prayer circle with Prudence, Warren, Ellen, Catherine, Diana, and Lance. Dave was there, fiddling with his cane, next to his best friend. Myriam was still screaming upstairs.

"What has happened?" Connor asked softly, moving to the innkeepers.

"Dr. Lyle came down, 'round lunch," Oliver said, trying to keep his hands busy. "Said it was going to be a difficult birth, said we needed prayers."

Ice in his chest.

"What is wrong?"

"He wouldn't say," Corrine said. "His hands were covered in blood, only said we had to get as many prayers as we could."

Without another word Connor powered back to the manor and explained the situation, and Achilles and the others were filed back down to the inn to join the prayer group. Ratonhnhaké:ton, always uncomfortable with religion not his own, instead sat with Norris, his body perfectly still as his chest rattled with anxiety. And they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until, at last, at one in the morning, eighteen hours after the contractions had started, an exhausted Dr. Lyle stumbled into the tavern, blood up almost to his elbows and wiping himself down on an equally bloody apron, and stood in front of Norris.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

Norris, half asleep, blinked up owlishly. "_Quoi_?"

Dr. Lyle took an audible breath through his hooked nose. "I'm sorry, Norris," he said again. "The umbilical was wrapped around the child's neck. She had no hope."

Norris was still uncomprehending, sitting up and staring at the sagged features of the doctor. Color was slowly draining from his face, Ellen and Prudence were already sobbing, but the miner could only ask, "When can I give the present?"

"Norris..." Godfrey started to say.

"_Non, je ne comprends pas_, what are you saying?" his voice was rising in pitch.

"Your daughter," Dr. Lyle said, failure etched in every intonation, "was a stillborn."

"_Mort-né..._" Norris whispered, face slackening as the horror of the words finally, finally, set in. His face crumpled in on itself, two fat tears rolling down his cheeks before he buried his face in his hands and collapsed into a long gut-wrenching wail. "_Noooooooon!_" he cried out. "_Noooooon! Non, non, non, non, non! Comprends pas! Comprends pas! C'est impossible! C'est incroyable! Ce n'est pas vraaaai...!_" His boxed gift slumped from his lap and tipped to the floor, opening to reveal a complex series of metal pipes, wind chimes, which had been hand-picked and smelted by Norris himself. Godfrey and Terry tried to offer comfort, Dave putting a massive hand on his best friend's shoulder. Dr. Lyle did not stay long, going back upstairs to treat an exhausted Myriam, Diana and Prudence quick to offer help and disappearing with him.

And Achilles, Achilles looked as he had the night he told Ratonhnhaké:ton the story of Shay, crippled with age as he silently worked himself to his feet and left the inn. Connor and the others soon followed, all of them grieving the loss of a child.

The next morning was cool and grey.

Connor pushed himself in his run, making it almost completely out of the valley before his lungs gave out and he finally stopped. He braced his hands against his knees, struggling for breath as his entire body shook with negative emotions, consumed with memories of his mother, conflicting thoughts of his father, the desperation of Prudence to have a child, the fear Myriam had expressed over her pregnancy, everything crashing together in a cacophonous noise that Ratonhnhaké:ton could not escape from in his mind. He must have spent half an hour under the canopy of a tall maple tree, consumed by his emotions and struggling to think of stillness.

It rained as he made his way back to the manor; he did not pass the kids, he had known the previous night that they would likely not train this morning.

Connor stopped at the inn again, but Corrine told him Myriam was taking no visitors. Nodding, he moved further down the path to Dr. Lyle to see him sitting in the rain under his tree, water running down his face and glasses as he stared at nothing, mind just as consumed as Connor's. The young native walked up to the medicine man, uncertain if there was something he should do.

Dr. Lyle sensed his presence eventually, and snapped old eyes up to Connor.

"Sorry," he said in a low voice, standing stiffly and rubbing a soaked hand over his equally soaked face. "Did you need something?"

"No," Connor replied. "Do you?"

The doctor's eyes widened, staring at Connor for several awkward seconds before a soft, self-deprecating smile graced the doctor's thin lips. "Nothing you can give me, lad," he said. "Times like this call for God's council, one night drunk beyond sense, and a thorough review of my medical journals. Chantal-Manon is not the first patient I've lost in my career, and she won't be the last, though I wish it were otherwise. It's times like this I realize just how little we know about the human body, and once the sting of the loss is gone I'll be all the more determined to know more. Until then..." Dr. Lyle couldn't finish the sentence, giving Connor the pained look of a man who lost a great battle, and sat back down on his stump to go back to thinking in the rain.

"Dr. White," Connor said softly. "You will make yourself sick, sitting out here."

"I may," Lyle said, "But the rain does me good. Today it gets to act as my tears."

And Connor could not deny the man his means of comfort.

It was a week before Myriam was even seen, locked up in her temporary room at the Mile's End as she was, and Norris alternated from locked up with her to passed out over his cups in the tavern, unconscious sobs sometimes slurring through his stupor. When Myriam finally showed herself, it was to go to church on Sunday, and she stayed there after service for almost two hours, finally escorted back by Father Timothy. Connor watched from the trees unobtrusively, trying to gauge the hunter's actions. Would she start a mourning war? Unlikely, taking a child to replace one lost was considered taboo in the Colonist world view, but there was a darkness in the woman's eyes that Connor was perhaps too familiar with, and he worried that Myriam had so isolated herself.

It was the end of May when she finally came out on a day that wasn't Sunday, she powered out in her hunting clothes, face red with anger and Norris trailing after her, pleading in French.

"No, Norris," she insisted, taking her musket and slinging it over her back. "I need to hunt. I need to get an order of furs in, your mine won't hold us out forever, and it's past time I did what I was _supposed_ to do."

"But Myriam...!"

"_It's better this way,_" she hissed. "I don't need you hovering!"

"_Mon petit..._"

"Don't French your way out of this," she growled. "I don't need to be held and fawned over, I need to be out in the woods, doing my work like I was supposed to in the first place. I was a fool to even think otherwise."

"But..."

"I'll see you in two months, Norris," Myriam said, slinging her pack over a shoulder. "Maybe by then..."

"By then _what_?" Norris begged, his voice echoing off the valley. "I don't understand what you want me to do! We lost a child, we are both in pain, should be not comfort each other together?"

"And be the good wife?" Myriam demanded in a low voice, eyes narrow. "You want me to cry into my petticoats and cling to you? Would that make you feel better? Do you want me to mope around the house like you do, lost and wondering what to do with myself? I'm not built like that Norris! I thought you of all people knew that!"

"That is not what I am saying!"

"_Yes, it is!_"

Connor, unable to watch the two fight any longer, stepped up, gently touching their shoulders, drawing their attention and reminding them with his very presence where they were. Norris was shame-faced, looking down and wringing his hands, but Myriam's face was cold as stone. She wrenched herself away from Connor's gentle touch and stormed off, muttering curses under her breath.

"Connor," Norris pleaded. "Please, I don't know what to do..."

"I will follow her," he promised. Dave was seen limping down the path, and the young native left Norris to the miner's best friend as he moved around the inn, taking the narrow path over the river and to the mine, where Myriam was sitting on the shallow bank, sharpening her knife. She gave him a hateful glance.

"Did he send you?" she demanded, accusation in her voice.

"No," Connor said, walking up slowly, as if approaching a wild cat. He crouched down a few feet from her, watching her as she rhythmically ran her whetstone over the blade. It was the knife Norris had fashioned for her. "I came to ask if you were well."

Myriam made an ugly noise. "Everybody keeps asking that," she muttered in a bitter voice. "Diana, Prudence, Ellen, your new girl Anne. Don't know why they keep asking. I'm _fine_."

Connor shook his head. "No, you are not."

The silence stretched out after that, Myriam sharpening her knife and Connor simply waiting, perfectly still, eyes on her unblinkingly. Myriam was not a weak woman, she faced dangers head on, from bears to cougars; she knew who she was and was happy with what she was. For a long time she had no intention to follow the traditional path of Colonial woman, content to life in the woods and the quiet, trade with tribes and hunt, live life as she saw fit. Marriage – even marriage to Norris – had terrified her; she did not want the life she loved to change, but she faced it resolutely. Pregnancy... that had been a different matter entirely. Life with Norris, Connor knew, she had enjoyed long before they were married, but a child changed everything, and she had shared with him her worries, her ambivalent feelings.

The hunter finally cursed, licking blood from her thumb. "It doesn't matter," she muttered.

"What?"

"It doesn't matter," she said again, louder this time. "It doesn't matter how I feel. God never made me to be a housewife, what made anyone think He made me to be a mother? Damn fool idiotic thing to expect of me. Never understood why He gave me a woman's body, I'm terrible at playing at it, so of _course_ I-" she cut her words off immediately, biting them down before her thought could be finished. Connor said nothing, simply waited, perfectly still. She looked at him, face reddening, anger filling her features and energy pushing her to her feet. "It's all his fault," she said. "He's the one that put that thing in me, he's the one who said I'd be a good mother, he's the one who was _happy_ about it! It should have been him! He should have carried the stupid thing in his stomach for a year, go through all the changes and the loss of skill and the swollen feet and the strange tastes and the sickness. _He_ should have been the one to give birth, _he_ would have done it right!"

Connor blinked, listening between the words. "You feel the loss is your fault?"

"_Of course it was!_" Myriam roared. "I'm no good with these womanly things! I knew that all my life, but that damned Norris had me absolutely convinced I could be a mother! Fool! Damned idiotic French _fool!_"

And at last her voice broke, and she collapsed into a fit of tears. Connor reached over and slowly drew her into an embrace, uncertain what else to do as Myriam weathered the storm she had been building to. The sun was past its zenith when it finally ended, and Connor risked saying something.

"It does matter," he said softly. "What you feel. It does matter, because it happened to you just as much as it happened to Norris, and Prudence and Dr. Lyle and the others. You cannot assume responsibility for the guilt simply because you do not feel strong as a woman. Norris needs you, and I believe that you need him. You cannot be strong all the time."

"I was before," she moaned. "I didn't need anyone before I came here!"

"And were you happy then?"

She did not answer, but Connor was eventually able to coax her back to the valley, and slowly walked her to the church and Father Timothy. The preacher took one look at Myriam and stopped his discussion with Warren, darting down the aisle and touching the poor woman's shoulder. "My dear child," he said softly. Warren joined him outside, and they shared an uncertain look, neither man sure what to do in these circumstances. "Prudence keeps trying to talk to her," Warren said, rich voice low and shaky. "We have lost children, too, but she will not share her pain with us. Ellen, Miss Tanner, she is Myriam's close friend, but she will not speak to her. Not even Norris..."

"She cannot see past her own pain," Connor said softly. "For many years, I, too, could not see past mine." He looked down at his hands, thinking of Kanen'tó:kon. "I paid a heavy price for it. Perhaps Father Timothy will have better luck."

* * *

June brought sunny weather and much growth, it was the most fertile year yet for the Freemans, and Ellen's lucrative tailoring earned more than enough money to recover the loss of Myriam's fur trade. She worked not only on outfits but also upholstery, and spent hours at the spinner making her own thread. Marie was her little shadow, learning the trade and adding small, handmade dolls and pincushions to the list of things she sold in New York. Lance continued to boggle at the thought of folding chairs, and filled in two orders of them – one in Boston and one in Philadelphia, that also brought in a lot of money. Dr. Lyle worked past his defeat and continued to grow herbs in the back of his house, experimenting on them and learning as much as he could with renewed vigor.

Word spread from Albany that the raids were continuing to worsen. The Haudenosaunee had split over which side to back in the war – the first divide the nation had ever suffered: the Tuscarora and Oneida choosing the Patriots and the Kanien'kehá:ka, Seneca, Onondaga, and Cayuga all choosing the regulars. Last November had seen a brutal massacre in Cherry Valley – no, this had started much earlier. After the battles at Saratoga, the entire frontier had turned into a battleground. Loyalist allied natives with redcoat support and armament raided Patriot settlements and vice versa. The raids became bloody and ruthless, enemies scalping each other in retaliation for previous slights, not understanding they were perpetuating the cycle of raids. Ratonhnhaké:ton was too afraid to go back to his valley – in part because he feared seeing it in ruin, but mostly because he could not yet face that Kanen'tó:kon was dead by his hand, and he would have to admit this sin to Oiá:ner. This had led Thayendanegea, one of the war chiefs the Confederacy had named along with Sayenqueraghta and Kaiiontwá:kon, to lead a retaliatory raid on Cherry Valley. When all was said and done, Thayendanegea, known as Joseph Brant to the Colonists, and his war party had killed fourteen soldiers and a staggering thirty settlers, not including another thirty captured. It was hard to tell fact from propaganda, all Ratonhnhaké:ton knew for certain was that more blood was going to flow, and he prayed to all of the Spirits that his neutral valley would be spared.

The inevitable retaliation came again: something called the Sullivan Expedition.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was not surprised, he had learned the pattern of hate the settlers suffered under in the most intimate way possible, he reached for his neck in phantom memory, and he was not surprised that Washington had done something so villainous. What did surprise him, however, were his feelings. He was riddled with anxiety, such that he packed his horse in spite of Achilles' warning and rode his black mare west towards his home, that was nothing new, but his mind was consumed with trying to figure out the political gain from such an expedition, why Washington had decided to do this again when the commander knew Ratonhnhaké:ton's feelings on the matter. Often, he caught himself wondering why he even _cared_, his people were in _danger_, what did the _whys_ matter?

He left in the middle of the July heat when he heard the news, head swirling with politics that were unnecessarily complicated, and determined to do what he could to mitigate the damage.

It was three-hundred-eighty-three miles from the manor to the Pennsylvania-New York border, to the juncture of the Susquehanna and Chemung Rivers, where Sullivan, the leader of the expedition, had created a fort – arrogantly named Fort Sullivan. The ride took three weeks – closer to four, because of a series of thunderstorms that kept travel almost to a crawl. He hoped to do twenty miles a day, but some days he could only manage five. He arrived in the middle of August, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found the pickets first.

"Hey, it's you!" one of the Continentals said. "You're that fellow, Caleb, Christian, something or other that came with the supplies! Hail and well met, what brings you up this way into savage territory?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised he was remembered from over a year ago as he reigned up. "I am here to speak to the commander of this expedition," he said simply.

"That's Major-General Sullivan," the picket said brightly. "He'll be glad to see you, guide says there's a village up ahead, don't know about us. You're from around here, right, you can help us slaughter the redskins."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was nearly sick to hear the casual tone, but he got his directions and passed into the hastily constructed fort. General Sullivan was meeting with his other commanders when Ratonhnhaké:ton was sent in, and greeted only with a meeting of the eyes before he was summarily ignored in favor of the guide. The meeting stretched for another twenty minutes before it was concluded, and Sullivan finally looked up to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Yes?" he asked.

"My name is Connor," the young Kanien'kehá:ka said. "I have worked with Commander Washington before."

Sullivan's eyes narrowed, searching his memory, before recognition dawned. "Yes, I remember you," he said. "The Commander sent you after the missing supplies, they arrived the same day as the delegates from Congress. Didn't you also come with us when we crossed the Delaware to Trenton? But you're not a soldier. A guide? A spy? What do you want?"

"I am here to prevent unnecessary bloodshed," Ratonhnhaké:ton said.

Sullivan laughed. "God save you!" he said cheerily. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a _war_. Bloodshed is inevitable, unnecessary or otherwise. Only way to avoid it is to inflict it."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Inflicting is causes more of it. You fail to understand the cycle you are perpetuating. I am here to council you."

"On whose authority?" Sullivan asked, eyes narrowing.

"My own. Your people call me Connor, but my name is Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka, member of the Haudenosaunee, the Six Nations. Your expedition will harm my people, and so I have come to ask you to stop."

Sullivan pursed his lips, working his jaw as he contemplated what Connor had told him. The man was not an idiot, none of the men Washington put in charge were, and Sullivan understood that this was a political talk as much as it was a humane one. Ratonhnhaké:ton balked that the man even needed to debate this, and he pressed his point. "What you are seeking to do will not achieve the goal you have set for yourself. The frontier is a battleground, yes, the Six Nations are divided, yes, and people are suffering, yes. All of this is true. Thayendanegea was wrong to kill so many settlers at Cherry Valley last year, I acknowledge that fact as a member of the Confederacy. But you, in turn, must acknowledge that destroying our homes and villages, salting our earth and burning our crops, will not end the conflict as you think it will. It will instead perpetuate the cycle. The frontier is not a war of Patriot and Loyalist, American and English, it is one retaliation after another, one atrocity in answer to another. You are retaliating after Cherry Valley, Thayendanegea and the other war chiefs will retaliate for this, and vice versa, until the entire land has been eaten by the need to see blood. I am in no position to speak for all of the Haudenosaunee, but surely you, an educated and enlightened man, sees that nothing good can come of this expedition."

"I hear your words, Connor," Sullivan said slowly. "There is truth in what you say. You are articulate and educated yourself, I can see why Washington was so hurt when you left, but what you don't understand is that this is more than retaliation."

"In what way?"

"We have more enemies than the redcoats and the Loyalists," Sullivan said. "We're carving out a place for ourselves, a tiny would-be nation that needs to convince the world that invading us is a bad idea. We have to send a message to our enemies – and yes, boy, that means your people – that we are not to be trifled with. We must tell the world that we are strong, we are firm, and we do not tolerate savages scalping women and children lightly."

"And so you, too, would scalp women and children?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Sullivan gave a small, dark smile. "Save the rhetoric. My orders," he said in a deliberate tone, "Are very clear. I respect you, boy, because Washington respects you. But my orders state overtly that I will not listen to any overture of peace before the total ruining of your settlements. We will have no more retaliations, as you put it, when your people can't eat this winter, and they learn the hard way it is because they were foolish enough to try and attack _us_, who have done nothing to garner their hatred."

"You are wrong," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, voice rising slightly. "You only condemn an entire Confederacy to starvation and death."

"And they deserve every moment of it," Sullivan said, eyes dark. "You've said your piece, boy, it's time for the men to work. When Clinton and his men get here, your people will know what it means to stand against these united states."

Ratonhnhaké:ton worked his jaw, chest tight, as he took his mare and rode out of the fort, not even acknowledging the picket who waved to him. Instead he moved into the woods, to the settlement that would be attacked the next morning. The village was not unaware of the newly made fort, and already most of the village had packed and started the twenty odd mile walk to Newtown, across the border in New York. Many, however stayed to fight the Continental Army.

"That is foolish," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "They are too many, and there has been too much blood already. I cannot stop them, but I will not see you, my people, hurt."

"You are not our people, Ratonhnhaké:ton," said the _roiá:ner_ bitterly. "We know of your training and your mission by Iottsitíson, Thayendanegea was there when you killed Warraghiyagey, he saw your _roiá:ner_ banish you from your tribe. You do not understand the changes that have come these last few years, the hatred of the white men. We have had no peace. _They_ do not want peace. Why did you not advocate for peace _then_, when Warraghiyagey sought to protect our lands, why did you not advocate peace _then_, when the Nations were divided? But _now_, when the enemy is in our home and ready to destroy us, _now _you advocate peace? It is clear who you side with in this conflict, as the Oneida and the Tuscarora, and we will not abide your forked tongue. You are allied with _atenenyarhu_, men who will devour us whole so that they might claim the land, and we will not stand by and let you do so. We must fight for what is right, for it not us then who?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton was shaken to his very core at those words, the world under his feet crumbling as he fell into free-fall. How could this have happened? How could _anyone_ think that he was the very thing he had sworn to defeat? He had not realized that Thayendanegea was one of the chiefs at that meeting, that the great war _sachem_ had witnessed him doing Iottsitíson's will. That one act had cost him, had cost Kanen'tó:kon, so much... And now he saw just how far the chains of consequences stretched. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not an unknown warrior on Spirit Quest, he was the boy who had killed William Johnson, the white _sachem_ who spoke for their people to the settlers, to be reviled and hated by all. Had he truly been so blind? Was this why Kanen'tó:kon had come to hate him so completely? Was this why his dreams held such bad luck? Was this why he had been nearly hung?

He moved in a daze, lost in his thoughts, through the morning fog, letting the black mare take him where she would, unable to process what he had just heard. He only came back to himself when he smelled smoke, and he realized the attack Sullivan had planned had begun. He turned the mare and trotted over the hilly terrain back the way he had come, and saw the town he had just left was indeed destroyed.

The second army that Sullivan spoke of arrived on the twenty-second, and four days later they began their march. Ratonhnhaké:ton rode ahead of them, towards Newtown, New York where the village had retreated to, and tried to tell them what was happening, and would happen if they continued to fight. None of the _roiá:ner_ would speak to him, however. Thayendanegea was at Newtown himself, along with Kaiiontwá:kon, the former organizing for battle while the latter was moving from one village and settlement to the next, fighting to get as many Haudenosaunee evacuated north to Canada as possible. Known to the white men as Joseph Brant and Cornplanter, respectively, they were two of the three war chiefs the Confederacy had chosen to lead the fight against the Patriots, and both were resolute in the determination to stop the slaughter before it even started.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was not allowed to speak to them, both knew him as the man who killed Warraghiyagey, and many in Newtown whispered that he was little more than an apple, red skin outside, but completely white underneath. The ugliness of the language hurt even more than from the settlers, because these were his _people_, and he was incapable of believing that the followers of the Great Peacemaker Skennenrahawi would be so bloodthirsty. It was Skennenrahawi who was the founder of the Confederacy, along with Hiawatha, that forbade cannibalism, human sacrifice, and black magic. What was this but cannibalism and human sacrifice? What was war other than black magic? Even a righteous war such as the Colonists...

It was too much for him to reconcile in his mind, too much was happening too fast, and he could not fathom that he was unable to _stop this_. What was his training – over half of his life dedicated to the art of the _Hirokoa_, if not to prevent such events as this? He just needed time, just a little more time, to heal and kill _Charles Lee_, to talk to his father one more time, to make all of this _right_, he only needed a little more _time_ and why wasn't it enough?

The battle took place on Sunday, the twenty-ninth, in Newtown. The Haudenosaunee were not prepared for the complicated plan Sullivan had determined, and it was only the slow march across swampy marshes that gave them enough time to escape. Kaiiontwá:kon swore revenge, that the raids would not stop, but it was empty rhetoric as forty towns were burned, salted, and completely destroyed as Sullivan brutally marched from his fort all the way up into Seneca territory.

"The man Washington," Thayendanegea said, "He is known to us as Conotocarious, the Town Taker. This has shown us that he has not changed, he is a Hanodaganears, a Devourer of Towns. Everyone will know this."

But all Ratonhnhaké:ton could think about was the coming winter, and what his people were going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short version: it all goes downhill from here, folks.
> 
> Though we start off in a happy place with Myriam and Norris' wedding, there isn't really room in the story for good things to happen (even to them. God poor kids! We're sorry!), because we are now at the stage where Connor's life slowly starts to fall apart. It started with the death of Kanen'to:kon of course, but now he realizes just how much that loss actually hurt, because it was not just his best friend but his entire people he lost. Thayendanegea (Joseph Brant), Sayenqueraghta and Kaiiontwá:kon (Cornplanter) are rather famous in history, we highly recommend looking them up on wikipedia. It has weight when such storied members of the Haudenosaunee denounce Ratonhnhake:ton - and a spit in everything he's done up to this pointby callng him an atenenyarhu and accused of eating his people, to say nothing of racism at last touching his idyllic home. His very home has rejected him, as Achilles predicted several chapters ago, and he has to watch impotently as his people are slaughtered. His village is safe in its neutrality, but that like saying your home town is fine while the rest of the state is burning to the ground.
> 
> We've talked about this in PMs and review replies, but it's worth stating here: it is our collective duty as Americans to do more than just thump our chests and show " 'murica! Fsck yeah!". We have the duty to understand that our history is not this bright and shiny canvas of heroes and crusades and flags and patriotism. Ours is not the perfect country we laude; we have dark, dark roots in the very foundation of our country, and more than learning ABOUT it in school we should learn FROM it to be the perfect nation we try to hard to strive for. We have to understand that there were 42 million Native Americans before we came here and now make up less than two percent of our country's population - and no matter how many people try to say that "they made war with us!" Or "some of those tribes were war like!" we fought for the sole reason that we wanted them extinct so we could take their land for our own use. We broke our word constantly and paid people for scalps - aka paid people to go out and indiscriminately kill Native Americans.
> 
> It's as Achilles said, like must be with like, and it's very hard sometimes to see the beauty of a diverse canvas, let alone hand power over to someone that is so hard to identify with. As a country we should openly fear and denounce those who want to separate us or only see value in people who share our religion or enjoy making people afraid of those who are different. Even belying how unhealthy that kind of language is, it shows how little understanding such a person has for the country they pound their fists over.
> 
> Achilles, of course, being the Old Man on the Hill has the benefit of foreshadowing, and it sort of hurt even more because he tried to warn Ratonhnhake:ton about this and he didn't listen.
> 
> Next chapter: The coldest winter in history, tuberculosis, and us geeking out over our home state. Did we mention it all goes downhill from here?


	27. Consumption

It was a disaster. A complete disaster. And Ratonhnhaké:ton sat on his black mare and just stared down at the valley. His valley. After the horrors he'd seen from Sullivan's Expedition, and hatred that refused to listen to reason, he had ridden blindly for days through the woods, until he at last saw his village beneath him. There were still cookfires, his people moving freely about, seemingly without worry. He doubted that was the case. There _had_ to be worry as chaos ruled all around them and the evil twin Flint prospered on the blood. He longed to ride down, talk to them, visit his people, see Oiá:ner, seek council. But he had the blood of Kanen'tó:kon on his hands. He could not ride down there. He could not visit his people or speak with them. He could not seek Oiá:ner's council. Because he had done the unthinkable and killed one of their village.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," a withered voice greeted him.

Surprised and suddenly tense, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to his left to see his Oiá:ner standing under an oak, looking up at him with relief.

"I-"

"We all worried," she continued, her eyes watering. "You left so swiftly... You did not finish the ceremony with us."

Ratonhnhaké:ton grit his teeth. How could she be relieved? To see _him_? After what he'd _done_? Even now, a year later and it still agonized. His vision blurred and he looked away. There was no way they could not have seen that he had been the one to kill Kanen'tó:kon. So why was she...

"What troubles you, Ratonhnhaké:ton?" she asked gently.

Ratonhnhaké:ton choked down sobs and continued to stare down at his hands.

Oiá:ner just waited. She could always practice stillness so much better than him...

Finally, he looked away. "Kanen'tó:kon is dead," he said softly and stiffly. "He is dead and I am to blame."

"What happened?" she asked quietly, no judgement or condemnation in her ancient tone.

He dismounted and fiddled with the straps of his horse, unwilling to look at her. This was the moment. The moment where he needed to explain everything. To tell Oiá:ner, at least, the horror he had committed by killing Johnson all those years ago, the wrong happening with the other villages and tribes...

This was his chance...

"He... I..." Grief and sorrow clutched his insides, choked his throat, and wavered his voice. Could he really explain? Explain the subtle intricacies of the white man's world and the micromanagement of his _raké:ni?_ The grand scheme and the parts of Washington the Hanodaganears and how apt a name that had become? How did one explain all that? _How_?

"I cannot say for certain."

Oiá:ner only sighed, leaning heavily on her staff, the heavy cloak he'd had Ellen make for her from so long ago still around her shoulders despite the heat of the summer. She said nothing for a time, only reaching up once to wipe at her eyes.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood there, completely still. For stillness was all he had left.

"There is talk," she said softly. "Talk amongst the other nations of moving west... Away from the war, into Canada. Perhaps it is time we considered such a thing."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied firmly. "We stay. This is our home. Iottsitíson herself has us guarding this valley. I am..." _hiding at the manor so that I do not deal with the death of Kanen'tó:kon, trying to heal so that I can kill _Lee, "doing everything I can to make our people safe." _Even if others do not listen..._

"But for how much longer," Oiá:ner sighed. "And at what cost?"

"I will make it safe," he replied stubbornly. "It is my mission. My task. My burden. So I will do so."

She looked sadly to him, her wrinkles seeming even deeper than ever before as she hobbled over and placed an old, withered hand on his arm. "Oh, my child..." she pulled gently, making him face her as she looked up to him. "We cannot change what is to come," she said. "Though we might abandon this land... We will not abandon our ways. We carry home in our hearts. Just as you do when you are so far away from us."

She couldn't leave. She just _couldn't_. She was the only connection he had left with his village.

"Please," he choked out. "You must wait. A little more time is all I need..."

Time to finish healing. Time to kill _Charles Lee_. Time to figure out how to handle his father.

Just a little more time...

To mourn...

Kanen'tó:kon...

Gently, she pulled his massive frame down into a warm hug and he just broke down and cried.

* * *

When Connor returned to Rockport, he felt emotionally drained. Between seeing what was happening to his people, how divided they were after a thousand years of peace, meeting with his _oiá:ner_ when he hadn't intended to, sharing with her that Kanen'tó:kon was... dead... Connor was just drained.

Achilles met him at the door, though that wasn't a surprise. He also had a grim look once he saw Connor, which also wasn't a surprise.

"I told you not to go, boy," the Old Man grunted.

"You were... correct," Connor agreed, pulling off his saddle bags. "It was... foolish and hurtful for me to go."

Achilles just stared at him, leaning on his cane. Then he slowly nodded. "And now you understand better than if you hadn't gone. But then, all true learning hurts."

Connor could only nod, drop his things in his room, and then head to the stables to unsaddle and brush down his horse. Jacob, the Hessian that had joined the Assassins, came to the stable and stood by the stall. He explained that Clipper had taken the recruits out to the woods for a few days for hunting and some practice with silence and stealth, along with starting to get the meat necessary for smoking or salting for the winter. He talked about where all the recruits were in their training, and how things had been going since Connor had been away.

"Thank you," Connor said softly, "but I will be better able to listen tomorrow. It has been a long ride."

Jacob nodded, still leaning over the stall as Connor brushed down his horse.

"You know you have finished vith brushing zhe horse."

He let out a long sigh. "I am aware," he replied. "But it is... quiet and requires... stillness."

"Hmm," Jacob nodded sagely, running a hand over his bald head, then stroking his mustache. "I zhink zhat perhaps you vould prefer solitude too much."

Connor turned, pausing with his brush. "I do not understand what you mean."

"_Mein Freund_," he said softly, "you know zhat I am Hessian, _ja_?"

"Yes," Connor replied, an eyebrow raised.

"But do you know vhat language I shpeak?"

"German."

"_Exactement_," the older man said. "German. My land is divided and ve sell our armies to zhe highest bidder. I could have family in a different dukedom and end up facing zhem across zhe battlefield. And as ve fight one another, ve see ourselves broken apart."

"It is the same for my people," Connor replied softly. "For hundreds of years, since the Great Peacemaker Skennenrahawi sent Hiawatha, his orator, to our people, the Six Nations, the Haudenosaunee, have lived in peace with each other. We may have fought with our neighbors, we may have ill will towards the Algonquians, but all our tribes were at peace. Now..."

"Now you have friend against friend, family against family."

"Village against village, tribe against tribe." Connor looked to Jacob. "How do your people endure it?"

Jacob leaned back from the stall and turned, heading out the stable. Connor followed. "It is perhaps different for us. Ve have been fighting for generations. If ve have not been fighting zhe British, or zhe French, or zhe Italians, or zhe Russians, ve have been fighting each ozher. Ours is not a peaceful history. So perhaps I cannot compare. But knowing zhat my homeland is so divided, brings me great sadness."

Connor looked up to the blue October sky. "Yes. It does."

The two talked long into the night, Achilles joining them with dinner.

"It's the same in Africa," Achilles said softly. "The various tribes are selling each other out, not understanding what the slavery entails over here in the Americas."

"How do a people who were once whole divide themselves so quickly..." Connor muttered as they sat by the fire in the dining room, all sharing a drink before bed.

"If we had the answer to that..." Achilles said sadly, staring down at his wine.

"Vould zhat ve did," Jacob tossed back the last of his beer.

Connor merely sipped more of his hot chocolate.

It was a week later and while Connor could hardly say he felt better, not by any stretch of the imagination, he did not feel quite so much pressure as he had before he'd left to face the Sullivan Expedition. The long discussions he had with Jacob and with Achilles did a great deal to not exactly make him feel better, but not alone. None of their experiences were truly alike, but there was enough in common that they understood. In a small way it helped him come to small terms about the death of Kanen'tó:kon. Of seeing one considered family across the battlefield as Jacob and the various German dukedoms faced, or as Africans faced in their jungles and deserts.

He still grieved. He still mourned. He _still_ felt guilty. He likely always would.

But it was... manageable.

Connor visited down in the town, and life continued. Myriam was out on her hunting trip, what Connor saw as more of a self-imposed exile, and Norris was often seen either face down at the Miles End in his cups, or listlessly following along with Dave or working his heart out with his giant foreman Jacques. It was sad to see and everyone knew that the only one who could help the French miner was Myriam, who was such a jumbled mess of feelings.

Connor sighed. Perhaps he should find Myriam. He understood mixed feelings all too well and he wondered if he could help her. But he hesitated since many of her vacillations and uncertainties centered around her desires contrasting so strongly with societal expectations of her gender. Those constant worries were best handled by Ellen or Corrine, as well as Norris who only ever wanted Myriam as Myriam. But Connor couldn't exactly bring them into the forests to find Myriam when the hunter would hear them coming long before they ever found her trail.

So Connor stayed, still worrying.

Clipper returned with the recruits late around mid-November with enough meat for all of them easily through the winter, and even if they ran short, Connor was certain Clipper wouldn't mind another hunting trip. Just to show the recruits what _real_ cold was like when hunting. The way Clipper smiled and treated them like little siblings, particularly the youngest, made Connor smile.

"They manage right enough," Clipper said one evening by the fire. "Can hide in brush and go up trees real fast-like and stay hidden. But movin' stealthy, ain't no hope." The young Virginian rubbed his eyes. "Most are city folk and they don't understand nothing of huntin'."

"They understand something," Connor replied narrowing his eyes and thinking. "Else they would not have been sent here." Hmmmm. "I think perhaps what is necessary is a less controlled environment."

"Oh?" Achilles asked with a knowing grin.

"Here, we are safe," Connor replied. "There are no Loyalists and they have all of us if something were to go wrong. To say nothing of the entire village, which I am certain would come to our aid."

Jacob's eyes sparkled as he caught on, as did Clipper.

"I think we should visit a city. One where they must hide and stay hidden."

"I think zhat ve are onto something," Jacob sat back with a wide grin.

"A city without a bureau," Achilles agreed.

So the recruits barely had any time to settle in before they were packing again and heading off.

* * *

Once called Suckiag by the Podunk tribes of the area, the Dutch had built a fort and trading post in 1623, over a hundred and fifty years prior. But British settlers started arriving from Cambridge in 1633 and by 1654, the fort had been abandoned. Named Hartford after an English city of Hertford, the town soon grew to be the capital of the Connecticut colony. Settled neatly on the Connecticut River, there had initially been jurisdictional issues since it was outside of the established boundaries of the Massachusetts Bay Colony; Pastor Thomas Hooker, one of the first of the settlers and noted speaker on Christian suffrage, penned the _Fundamental Orders of Connecticut_. Not a charter, as Massachusetts had, but arguably the first constitution the world had ever seen, and the framework of the government for Connecticut that, while similar to Massachusetts, gave many more voting rights and chances to become eligible for election. The structure relied heavily on people voting, and had become a basis for much of New England and its very firm beliefs in elections and having a say. Hooker, after all stated, "The foundation of authority is laid, firstly, in the free consent of the people."

With the two largest cities of the colonies being Boston and New York and Hartford settled almost exactly between them, it was a natural hub of trade and information, both for the roads between the two cities, but also the Connecticut River itself all the way up to almost Canada down to Long Island Sound. The one downside that prevented Hartford from becoming a larger trade center like Boston or New York was that the Connecticut River itself was very shallow, preventing large ships from being able to come up the river.

They had arrived in early December, and Connor and Jacob were the only two full Assassins for all the recruits.

As they rode in, Connor explained why they were there. "Our task is simple. We will learn how to blend and hide within crowded streets and how to hunt without being spotted." He reined up and turned to look at the five recruits. "Each day we will pair you off and bring you to a different part of the city. You are to find the other group without their knowledge of you."

Jacob offered a wide smile. "_Und_ Connor and myself vill be hunting you as vell."

All their eyes widened.

"Now, let us find an inn."

The first three days in Hartford proved most frustrating for the recruits. Both Connor and Jacob were able to find the other group, often within an hour, and well before either of the groups were even close to finding each other.

But on the fourth day, things went differently.

Connor had left William, Nora, and Red Feather on the eastern side of the River and quickly ferried to the western side where Jacob had left Anne and Joseph. Both Jacob and Connor often told each other where they were leaving whatever grouping they had for the day, providing a starting point for the improvised hide and seek. Connor arrived in the main area of Hartford, prowling the streets with ease and none noticing him. But as he turned onto Forest Street, he found both Joseph and Anne very quickly because they weren't even trying to hide. Instead, Anne was looking at a building and just staring as silent tears streamed down her face. Joseph was by her side, trying to speak to her, but she was unresponsive.

Rushing forward Connor leaned down, "What has happened?" he asked gently, slowly and obviously putting a hand up to Anne's shoulder.

"She won't say," Joseph replied. "She just saw the school and broke down into tears."

"School?" Straightening, Connor turned and looked to at the massive brick structure and the tall clock tower. The Hartford Grammar School, meant to teach boys Latin and Greek to prepare them for college, founded in 1638, shortly after the British settlers arrived. He turned back to Anne. "Would your son have gone here?" he asked softly.

She finally buried her face in her hands, her bonnet acting as an Assassin hood and hiding her face. Joseph glanced around, noting a several people staring, and again tried to pull Anne away from the scene she was creating.

Connor looked to the tall recruit. "Please return to the inn," he said, keeping his voice soft, "and prepare our rooms."

"But-"

Connor used his eyes to gesture around them. "I ask you as my friend and student. To those around us, I ask you as my slave. Go prepare for us."

Anger flashed so briefly across Joseph's eyes that none would have seen it as he bowed his head and nodded, before jogging off. With him away, Connor turned back to Anne, gently touching her elbow and using that to guide them to a bench. People still looked, but Connor played the part of an attentive stranger, helping her to sit, offering a handkerchief, and going to a shop to ask for a glass of brandy for a distraught woman. The shopkeeper, who had clearly been spying from the window, was very kind to provide.

Connor returned and offered the glass to Anne. She choked out a small thank you before taking a sip. And another.

He sat by her, and stared at the school. Young men, younger than Joseph, would glance out the windows, or could be seen heading out to run for some errand or other. Connor watched, studying patterns, finding entry points, as he was trained to do. But he did wonder what school was like. Learning with friends, perhaps competing as Nora and Joseph did. Connor had learned first from his mother, then Oiá:ner, and finally from Achilles. All three approached learning hands on, showing him practical skills and having him do it over and over until he got it right. For all that he'd hated reading from the _Almanac_, and all the various newssheets, it had been direct learning. How did the white man teach in such buildings? Where the different rooms for different skills? How did one person teach so many at once? Was this something that they would need back at Rockport? He pondered the methods of education, still glancing carefully at Anne as she slowly composed herself.

"We shall return to the inn," he told her softly.

She looked at him, looking far older than she was, and only nodded, rubbing at her eyes again. He returned the borrowed glass and again guided her by the elbow, as she looked down at the streets red-faced and embarrassed. But Anne remained silent until they were in their rooms.

Joseph sat there, a plate of bread out and quickly fetched a pot of coffee from the proprietor.

"Thank you," Anne choked out. "I'm... sorry." She glanced up at them. "I..." she shook her head, pulled off her bonnet, and rubbed at a temple. "It's been ten years. You'd think I'd be _done_ with this by now."

"A son?" Joseph asked. "Connor said something about a son?"

"I have observed," Connor replied. "Ours is to always watch and learn. When Myriam was pregnant, I noticed Anne would not speak of it. And when Myriam lost the child, Anne was particularly haunted. Is that not so?"

The woman nodded, then reached back to pull out the pins in her chocolate hair and just let it hang, still rubbing at what was likely a pounding headache. "Watching poor Myriam, it brought it all back... and to see that school..."

"Perhaps we should have delayed this trip."

"No!" Anne looked up. "No, I _need_ to learn how to do this. I _need_ this."

Connor leaned back in his chair, holding his teacup and narrowed his eyes. "Achilles has interviewed all of you and understands why you are here. I have not interfered because I felt your reasons are your own."

Anne looked at him, stared at him, then glanced to Joseph. Finally she let out a heavy sigh. "I had two children," she said softly. "Elizabeth, the first we lost when a damn fool wasn't paying attention to where he was riding and knocked me down. Mark... Our son was born and we were so happy." She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes again, but otherwise it appeared she had weathered the worst of the storm. "Mark's father died when he was only four. Just grabbed his chest one day and dropped dead. We had no other family, so Mark and I survived as we could. I did some mending, some cooking, anything I could. Mark tried to be a paper boy, but he was only four. Two years later..." she looked to the fire.

"It was a riot. Boston had just had its Massacre."

Connor nodded. Had it really been ten years already?

"I told him not to leave my side. We were just going to the market for some day-old bread. But he wandered away when I was haggling. I identified his body that night."

Joseph's face was twisted in pain, and distinctly looking away. Connor noted it, knew there was a story behind it as well, but this was not the time.

"After that I wandered the streets for a while, just surviving. Then I started looking over the orphans." She looked down to her coffee. "There are so many orphans... That's when your man found me. He said I could do more here." She looked up at them with a broken smile. "I've listened. I've read, hard as that is. No one cares about children very much. And there are those who use children as workers, slaves to do with as they want. I _will_ stop them."

"And you will."

"So please," she looked right at Connor, back straight and filled with resolve. "Don't say I shouldn't be here. Don't say we should go back. I will _learn_."

Connor nodded. "You will," he repeated. "But tomorrow. For now, today has been long, and you need rest. Joseph and I-"

"I'll stay here," Joseph said firmly. "I'll look after Anne."

"As you wish."

That evening, after Connor and Jacob had split Nora, William, and Red Feather again to continue the exercise, Connor sat with his Hessian friend down in the tavern, explaining what had happened where he couldn't out in the town.

"Zhat is very sad," Jacob let out a heavy sigh. "I zhink tomorrow, ve should ensure Anne is over zhe river in East Hartford, _ja_?"

Connor nodded. "I agree. But I worry about Joseph. Her story affected him. Strongly."

"He vill speak of it when he is ready." Jacob cut another slice from his steak and chewed. "It seems today vas a day for emotions."

"Oh?"

"Wilhelm," Jacob replied. "I saw him valk by zhe Hartford Courant building and he vas strange."

"The Hartford Courant? The newspaper?"

"_Ja_."

Connor frowned heavily. "But he continued the exercise?"

Jacob nodded. "But he vas less focused, more prone to mistakes."

"Do you wish to keep an eye on Anne tomorrow, or William?"

"I vill shtick with Villiam."

They continued to discuss how to break up the recruits for the following day.

One of the benefits of being in a larger city was getting caught up on information. While Connor had been in the lands of his people, going from village to village and tribe to tribe in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the violence, Washington had won a battle at Stony Point on the Hudson River in July. It had been a resounding success, in a well-coordinated nighttime assault, rumors saying that the Americans only had bayonets against the British, which lead to a huge morale boost amongst the troops. Connor took heart in the Americans winning, even as his heart twisted at _Washington_.

But bad news was coming up slowly from the south. Savannah, Georgia, had been under siege for over a month, from September sixteenth to October twentieth, by American and French forces. D'Estaing, who had been part of the Battle of Newport, had come to help the Americans retake Savannah, along with five hundred _gens-de-couleur_, free black men from Saint Dominique, fighting alongside white men and slaves to retake the American city. It did not go well, and Casimir Pulaski, the cavalry man that Washington spoke so highly of at Valley Forge, was mortally wounded. Though Connor had not ever met the man properly, he did regret the loss of him. No matter Connor's feelings about Washington, the Virginian _did_ have a gift for gathering the strong and competent around him. Except for _Lee._

Connor shook his head, pushing such difficult thoughts aside.

On the east side of the Connecticut River, where that section of Hartford was starting to talk about becoming its own town given how big it was, East Hartford was just as busy as Hartford proper. Connor walked the streets, having agreed with Jacob the night before to not stray too far from Anne after having such horrible memories brought up so strongly. He kept her and Red Feather in constant sight, either from the roofs, or more likely the crowds of the streets. Anne was better after having spent the rest of the day retired in her room and talking to Joseph for most of that time. Red Feather merely looked to her from time to time, clearly aware _something_ had happened, but not what.

Both were working hard to stay blended within the crowds.

Too hard.

With a heavy sigh, especially how long they'd been at this, Connor walked forward.

"This is not working," he said, startling the both of them and making them whirl around. "You do not understand the crowds. You are seeking to hide in the crowd. What you must do is become one with the crowds."

"I don't understand," Red Feather frowned.

"You are a branch moving through the river, instead of a drop of water," Connor repeated. "You move with the crowds but you are not of them. And it shows."

Light twinkled in Anne's eyes as she finally understood, but then she looked to Red Feather, her face wincing in remembered pain.

Good, she realized the best way to hide in plain sight with Red Feather was to act like he was a child she was caring for. And while she had cared for many orphans since her son's death, to do so after such a hard day prior, was clearly going to be difficult. Gently, Connor placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded, then he disappeared into the crowds.

Watching from a distance again, Connor nodded as Anne started to blend in. She wasn't completely hidden yet, but things seemed to have finally clicked. It was a matter of refining footwork and how to observe without being spotted. Red Feather still seemed lost, but he was only eleven. Not that Connor had been better when he'd arrived at thirteen, but he'd already known how to hunt and applying that stealth in cities, while still needing adjustment, hadn't been hard for him. Red Feather had been raised in the cities and didn't have those skills. Though there were parts of how he walked that echoed how he might have started life in the forests.

Still, Anne and Red Feather were finally starting to blend. Or rather, Anne was and Red Feather was following along. And when William, Joseph, and Nora stumbled upon them, the three had difficulty spotting the two, where the two easily spied the three.

Connor considered this a good day. He and Jacob split them again to start the exercise over, and kept doing so over the course of the day. By the end, Connor felt that Anne had made real progress, and Red Feather might be grasping what was necessary.

The rest of the week started to show improvement, and Connor was wondering how much longer he and the funds could stay in Hartford. While Faulkner and trade brought in a lot of money, their funds were not unlimited. Frowning, he wondered if he should make a small hunting trip into the forests of Connecticut to supplement what they had with them.

"Connor."

The native looked up to see William, the printer taking a seat by him. "Yes?"

"You talked to Anne."

"Yes."

"She's been doing better. A lot better."

"Yes she has."

William grimaced. "I think you need to talk to Joseph."

"Oh?"

"He's... struggling."

Connor nodded. The competitive teenager was almost a full man. Certainly tall enough to be one, and quickly losing the lankiness and replacing it with a lean frame. He had been improving with the stealth, particularly when paired with Anne, though that was no surprise now that Anne understood and was teaching it to everyone. But William was correct. Improvements aside, Joseph was more agitated and irritable. Though Red Feather and William were behind him in stealth, Joseph was still snappish at any perceived mistake, where before he'd taken criticism quietly and used it as a challenge to improve.

So, before heading out the next morning, Connor pulled the young black man aside. They sat together at a table in the tavern, Connor with his hot chocolate, Joseph with a cup of coffee. Connor said nothing, simply kept still, and let the twitching teenager squirm.

"_What_?" Joseph growled, sticking out his lower lip in a spectacular pout that clearly meant to be a scowl.

Connor raised a brow.

Joseph looked away. "She reminds me of my mother."

"Anne has spent her life as a mother, even to those not her own," Connor replied. "It is natural to see that in her."

Joseph still scowled, then just put his elbows on the table and leaned his head into his hands. "You know I was a slave, right?"

"I suspected," Connor replied. "But I did not know. Achilles has always been free, as have the Freemans. They were the first black people I've ever met. But as I learned the way of the white man and the culture of the colonies, I realized that many of the black people I saw may be slaves. But there is no way to know who is slave and who is free. A man is simply a man."

"Most slaves are down south," Joseph continued, still staring down to his coffee. "I know that, I know they got it worse, and I don't even want to think about what it’s like on the plantations down in Caribbean, where they don't have winter and work the fields all year round. But my _master_ was a merchant in New York. He owned me and my mother."

Connor nodded. "Your father?"

"No idea. Mother said she and I had been sold shortly after I was starting to walk." A dark hand scrapped at his eyes. "Looking back, the merchant was good to us. He was always kind, made sure we were well taken care of. Looking back..." He trailed off and Connor simply waited.

"I think... I think that man loved my mother. I know he visited her at night often. But I couldn't see that then. All I saw was a _master_ using his goods, who happened to be my _mother_."

"You did not care for him."

Joseph scoffed. "Would any slave _care_ for his _master_?"

Connor glanced up to the wood beams above them, seeking stillness against the raging emotions of Joseph. "Care is hard to define as there are many shades. Could a slave care for a kind master after having an abusive one? Will the care ever penetrate the fear of being auctioned off? How does one even define all of that?" Connor looked back to Joseph. "My father is a harsh, cruel, manipulative, _vile_ man. Yet he cared for my mother. And my mother cared for him. Do those feelings matter less than the obvious care your master had for your mother? Did your mother return that care?"

"I..." Joseph's face twisted. "I don't know. I never asked. I just... assumed. I assumed she did it because she wanted to ensure we were safe and not sold and I couldn't _stand_ that. Who was that _white man_ to determine what liberties he could take and who was he to hold our lives in his hands? So I... ran away."

Like Anne's child who wandered off and then died. Joseph was suddenly seeing what his choice might have done to his own mother and he was twisted inside because of it. Connor knew that his own feelings for his father were just as twisted, though there was far more enmity involved that what Joseph likely had.

"You could write them," Connor said softly.

"I... what?"

"Write them. Tell them how you've grown and have a better understanding of things now that you have had more experience at life." Connor looked right into Joseph's eyes and raised a brow. "Let your mother know you are well."

Joseph said nothing, jaw open and eyes wide.

Connor nodded and stood. Joseph would sit out of the exercise this day to write his letter. So he went to find Jacob and start heading out. He left the Hessian in charge of Anne and Nora while he shadowed William and Red Feather. His little cousin, as Connor began to think of him, was attached to the older printer's hip, pointing and asking, trying to pretend to be an excited child. It did not come naturally to the young orphan, his effort was obvious, but William took it in stride and answered the preposterous questions as he could. Inevitably, they passed the building that housed the Connecticut paper, the Courant, and the printer's steps slowed, gaze turning to the brick building.

"... Why do you stare?" Red Feather asked.

"Because it reminds me of things," William replied.

"What kind of things?"

"... Of good times."

"What times?"

William turned and looked down at the boy, smiling softly. "I was a printer once; did you know that? Worked in Philadelphia, worked at the _Pennsylvania Magazine_. My editor there, he was an impassioned man – against everything I ever stood for. I was a Loyalist, you see, I think this war is a pile of horse manure. But that man, Paine, he ignored the pamphlet I submitted to him and instead published his own piece, _Common Sense_. Couldn't stand what he had done, couldn't stand what it did to all the colonies. Boy, I couldn't stand what it did for the war. Refused to read it for years. Years."

Red Feather frowned, uncertain what that meant.

William smiled, a little sad, and finally turned from the _Courant_. "Read it a few days before I was recruited. The man was right. It was common sense. I'd spent five years hating that man without even listening to what he had to say. I see a paper like this, I see a printing press, and I remember how much time I wasted, and I get just a might bothered."

The eleven-year-old wasn't sure how to respond to that, frowning for a long time before he looked up. "So you want to say sorry?"

Connor watched as William shuffled to a complete stop. "I suppose I do," he said finally.

Connor nodded, seeing just what his little cousin's skill was, and approached them, face schooled as the Old Man to articulate how they had failed in their assignment. Later that evening, he gave the remaining paper from Joseph's extensive effort to William, and the printer smiled.

* * *

It was the middle of December when they arrived back at Rockport. The wind was frigid, much colder than normal this time of year, and almost as soon as they were back it began to snow. And snow. And snow. The nor'easter started midafternoon and kept going for over a day. Two feet of snow had fallen over the course of 30 hours, and much of the valley were beside themselves to see so much snow appear instantaneously. Connor was not so surprised, his village was near _Ontario_, "Beautiful Great Lake," and storms like that were not uncommon in winter. Never _pleasant_, he explained quickly to the heated gazes, but not uncommon.

Digging out of the storm took the rest of the afternoon, even with the strong backs of Nora and Joseph and Connor himself, and that only got them the major paths to the stables and the main road. The road itself was pristine and untouched – and too deep for the sleigh. Connor rode down the hill the next day to see the rest of the settlement in similar straights. The Scotsmen had leant their children, and Ellen her daughter, to unburying the main road. Dr. Lyle could be seen on his roof shoveling it, the aging Oliver and Corinne doing the same to the protestations of Big Dave.

Norris was nowhere to be seen, and Connor rode out to the mine to see how he fared after the snow. The French miner was drunk, passed out in his cabin, oblivious to the suddenly white world around him. Myriam was missing. Was she out hunting? The thought brought a trickle of fear to Connor, storms this big this early boded ill for the coming winter, and he did not like the idea of the hunter losing herself in the cold. Hunters died in this weather if they were not prepared.

He rode back to the main road and offered his back to the _Miles' End_, and just in time, Oliver had thrown out his back and Corinne had to stop what she was doing to get Dr. Lyle in the frigid weather. Confined to bed, his wife was left to man the inn, which was, "A fair joke," according to her. "I finally get to manage the place myself and there'll be no business to manage. Not with a storm like that! He'll be back and up on his feet just as the customers start coming in."

"That'll be a might difficult," Faulkner said, "seeing as how the harbor is starting to freeze over."

"What?" Corinne, Big Dave, and Ellen demanded.

"Been creeping in like that for a while," Faulkner explained. "The weather's getting cold enough to freeze more than a brass monkey's balls, that's for certain. The harbor below always freezes on and off, but never this early in the season. That's what worries me. I'm off once the snow's clear, I want to get out and trading before I'm trapped here, won't do the port any good if I'm not out there making money."

"I understand," Connor said softly. "Do what you have to."

"Aye, captain."

The small settlement had exactly three days to dig out before they were buried again, this time in another foot of snow, and had to shovel out all over again. As the New Year turned everyone struggled to get into Father Timothy's church, Connor and the three kids had to shovel all the way to the Freeman farm, with their ranch hands dismissed for the season they had no hope of digging out themselves. Prudence worried over Hunter, nearly five, as he shrieked and played in the snow, Red Feather quick to follow.

"It is so cold out," she said, cocooned in two coats and a blanket. "I do not understand how he can run and play."

"He is a child," Catherine said in the sage voice of one who knew these things. "They have a fire pit deep in their bellies that keeps them immune to all forms of weather. All five of mine were like that, and Diana's, too."

"Marie wasn't like that," Ellen said, coming up with her perennial escort Big Dave. "She was sick every winter. I'm truly afraid this year. For her and for Myriam, too. Has anyone seen her?"

"Not since the first storm," Big Dave said. He turned to Connor. "This kind of weather good for hunting?"

"No," Connor replied as he helped the smith up the small rise to the church. "Winters this cold will mean little food for the animals, and in turn little hunting for us. Smaller game will be lost in the snow, and bigger game will be desperate. The wolves in the mountains will roam further, looking for food, and an ill prepared hunter can die in this kind of weather."

"_Quoi_?"

Everyone turned to see Norris, just barely sober, staring up at them as he came up the path. "Myriam... she might...?"

Connor was quick to reverse the damage. "I said an ill prepared hunter," he repeated. "Myriam is very good at her craft, I have no doubt she set out with the supplies necessary. You would know that better than anyone."

Norris seemed not to hear, staggering past the villagers and into the church, his eyes red and bleary. Everyone shared a pained look, and Connor bade them well wishes as his apprentices filed in to church, even Red Feather, who knew of no other religion. His lost heritage hurt Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he let the child follow the beliefs he had grown up with, and filed back to the house.

Two weeks later, just as the roads were clear enough to travel comfortably, another snowstorm – this one a blizzard – dropped another foot and a half of snow. That made almost five feet, and the wind of the blizzard caused drifts as high as the second story windows. Little Red Feather had shrieked in delight, opening his window and diving into the snow, and it was not long before he and the other children were running to and fro in the village, throwing snowballs at anyone and everyone, diving into the snow like it was water, soaking their clothes and coming back shivering and pink to stern lectures from their mothers. Nora and Joseph, normally sent to catch him, were nearly as wet in their attempts to curb the children.

Achilles watched it all with a face more closed off than normal, virtually silent, his eyes older and lost in memory. Connor watched, knowing there was more to his life than the horror he had described, and knowing that some pains could not be talked about. Some days he joined him at the window, looking out at the blindingly white snow, his mind hundreds of miles away to his home. The Sullivan Expedition had destroyed the valley, and now winter was like _this_. How were his people faring? Was there anything he could do? Was there any way to stop the starvation, the exposure, the slow strangulation of the Haudenosaunee that this winter would bring. Would his village fair well, or would they move as Oiá:ner had suggested...?

No, that was impossible. He only needed a little more time. Once the harbor thawed, he could get to work, send letters out, ask his Bureaus how they were doing, what information they had gathered, how the war was doing.

He thought of Valley Forge, knowing they were likely wintering there again. Sympathy swelled in him, and he hated himself for it, hated that even after Washington's betrayal he still felt empathy for the Patriot cause, still wanted to see them succeed in their ideals that were so similar to his own. How was the Congress, Sam Adams? How many colonies had ratified the fledgling constitution? He had received word that Israel Putnam, the Connecticut man who had fought at Bunker Hill and helped him at the hanging, he had suffered a stroke. Now paralyzed, he was forced to retire. What of Lafayette, back in France and in prison last he heard? What about that picket, who recognized Connor on the expedition? Or Sullivan himself? Connor quietly hoped _that_ man died this winter. Perhaps _Charles Lee_ would die, now, too, and save him the work. How fared his father, now bereft of everyone but _Lee_? Was he rebuilding his empire in this deluge of snow? How was his health faring? … Did he think of Connor?

He would shake his head when his mind inevitably brought him to that train of thought, and he would ask for a game of fanorona with the Old Man.

The sun was as deadly as the snow, Dr. Lyle was quickly busy with cases of hypothermia and frostbite. Two of Norris' miners lost ears to the cold, and Lance's apprentice Christopher lost two toes at once because he forgot to put on a layer of socks.

What none of them expected, however, was the sickness. Ratonhnhaké:ton's village had always been clean and well maintained, sickness was never too big of an issue. The settler cities – especially New York after the Great Fire, had been cesspools of disease that had hard working doctors like Jamie pushed to their very limits. Valley Forge had been a testament to the misery of sickness and the lack of understanding in how to fix it. Connor himself had been inoculated against certain diseases, and while Faulkner had mentioned that a fever had swept through the valley... _before..._ it had never really occurred to Connor that this valley would be like the cities or Valley Forge. There simply weren't enough people. So when Red Feather woke up one morning with a persistent cough and fever, he had assumed it was at best a common cold and simply let him rest.

It was Achilles who realized it was something more serious, checking on the boy and coming away with a hard look on his face. "He has consumption," he said. Nora, with Connor at the time, gasped. "We need to get him to Dr. White immediately. Wrap him in as many blankets as you can, saddle the horse. I don't care how deep the snow is, he can't be _here_, if he is it will spread to the rest of the manor and we're all dead."

It was a flurry of activity after that, Nora forbidding anyone else getting anywhere near Red Feather, instead, wrapping him in all the linens his bed possessed and taking Connor's black mare to ride down the hill. Connor followed on foot, Joseph and a tight-faced Anne with him while William stayed behind with Jacob and Clipper to mind the Old Man. It was snowing again – another four inches had already fallen, and it was work to get down to the main road, over the bridge, and to the doctor's house.

Inside sat Nora, her alabaster skin even paler than normal. With her was a shaking Prudence and Warren, and Ellen.

"We should not have let them play in the snow," Prudence was saying, Ellen holding her dear friend. "He's not even five!"

Connor felt his blood chill as he realized why the mothers were here, and a brief look at Nora saw her grim face as she nodded. Anne left almost immediately, too fragile in her own losses to handle the epidemic and all but running up the hill to the church, Joseph quick to follow. Connor simply sat on the floor, all chairs taken, and waited, perfectly still.

Dr. Lyle came down, pulling a cloth from his face. "It's consumption," he said gravely. "All the classic symptoms: fever, chills, chest pain. It's the bloody cough that cinches it. We have a lot that we need to do right now to prevent this from getting even bigger. All the sheets they slept in have to be burned, anything they touched has to be boiled. They cannot leave this house until it's over, one way or the other." Prudence sagged against her husband. "I will not sugar coat this," Dr. Lyle said. "Consumption kills more people than almost any other disease I know about. We're going to need prayers as much as medicine. This is going to be long, and it's going to be difficult, but you have my word that I will do everything in my power to see your children come out-"

"_Docteur_!"

The door swept open and a blast of frigid air rushed into the house as a silhouette stood in the doorway.

"God damn it all!" Dr. Lyle cursed in spite of the women present. "I've got patients in here, close the door!"

"_Docteur _Lyle_, veuillez aider...!_" Jacques moved deeper into the house, a gust of wind drifting large puffs of snow after him, before he knelt down and dropped the body he was carrying. Norris collapsed onto the floor, face bright red with fever and moaning. "_Il toussait sang, il s'écroula!_"

The French whistled over Connor's head, but he understood immediately what it meant regardless: Norris had consumption, too. Lyle cursed again, an even stronger word, before putting the cloth back over his face and demanding everyone leave the room instantly. Warren had to almost carry his wife out of the house, she was so weak from shock, and Ellen rushed out so quickly she forgot her cloak. Warren donated his, and they all moved down the lane and up to the church, the only place of solace left, Connor escorting them in to join Anne and Joseph. Father Timothy was already hard at work, his bible open and praying in a deep, resonant voice that echoed over the frame of the holy building. He didn't even look up, only gestured for his new guests to join him at the pews. Warren helped Prudence while Ellen's teeth chattered – it was so cold out that even the short walk turned her lips blue, and Anne donated several blankets to her as she silently contemplated the fate of her daughter. Connor, having no place here, went back to the manor with the prognosis.

Achilles was grim faced, only nodding and hobbling into the dining room to stare at the covered painting, the only way to articulate the pain he was suffering.

William nodded at the news gravely, and Clipper and Jacob both knew the odds better than anyone, the former having lost his only younger brother, and the latter losing an entire branch of cousins to the disease. "We was all inoculated, right?" Clipper said. "After the hangin'; afore Jamie joined us, he made sure none of us would get all sick-like. That mean we're good?"

"Who can say?" Jacob countered. "I don't sink there is a – vhat vas the word? - inoculation for it. Zhe doctor vould have said, _ja_?"

It was dark before Anne and Joseph returned, both emotionally spent and sent immediately to bed. Jacob and Clipper both looked after them, leaving Connor to finish the task of boiling every item in little Red Feather's room. He wondered how his little cousin was doing, worried at the grim prognosis of Dr. Lyle. Achilles retired to bed almost immediately, unwilling or perhaps unable to face the sickness. It wasn't until much later, past ten at night, when Connor realized he had no idea where Nora was.

Cold as it was during the day it was downright deadly at night, without the sun or even clouds to blanket the sky, temperatures dropped even further, and Connor knew walking in the snow at night would be certain death, but still he bundled himself in every layer he had, every blanket he had, and tucked his hands deep into his arms as he rode back down to the village. Father Timothy had not seen Nora, and Conner's stomach dropped as he rode to Dr. Lyle's house and knocked on his door. Nora opened it and ushered him in and out of the cold. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in a low voice. "The doctor's quarantined all the kids, ye cannae see them."

"I am here to ask what you are doing," Connor replied. "It is dangerous here."

"Aye," Nora said, her green eyes fierce and her coppery hair highlighted in gold in the firelight. "I know. Lost me mum ta the fever. Lost me da. Lost me brother. I'll not lose my new family – especially the first little brother I ever had. For the first time in me life I have a Creed, and I'll not avoid followin' it ta keep meself safe."

"Nora..."

"Dinae try to talk me out o' this, Master Connor," the girl said. "I know what I'm doin'."

The unhidden fear on her face spoke otherwise, but Connor understood that this was her _atenenyarhu_, and he could not deny her the battle. He returned to the house, teeth chattering, and paced the house all through the night, trying to quell his anxiety, trying to reach for stillness. Why was he never still?

Exhaustion finally drove him to sleep, and for the next week the manor waited word from Dr. Lyle. Nobody was allowed into his house, and everyone gathered next door at the _Miles' End_ to worry together. Prudence could hardly eat, Ellen sitting with her daily while Corinne kept them warm and fed, Oliver still in bed because of his back. Myriam had not yet returned, and the worry for her scraped against the worry for the children and Norris, and finally Connor could not keep still. He knew most of her hunting grounds, and after informing Achilles he went to find her. The black mare glared at him for taking her out into the snow again – it was another snowstorm when he left – and rode through drifts that nearly buried the poor horse as he rode north into the woods.

Travel was slow to almost impossible, the snow covering channels and gullies and preventing an adequate assessment of the ground. The mare could not travel far in the freezing cold, and Ratonhnhaké:ton lit fires as much to warm her as himself. The first two camps he tried were cold, and an additional eight inches of snow had fallen from various flurries and snow showers. His teeth constantly chattered under the scarfs, his fingers were numb and hard to move, he lost feeling in all of his extremities and movement was slow and poorly coordinated. The fires were the only things that kept him from losing is mind as well to the numbness, the rhythm was cathartic and brought anticipation of warmth and the fear of checking his body carefully to see if he had frostbite anywhere. He stayed closer to the fire than was truly practical, his mare did, too.

Rivers were a death sentence, and that made travel even _worse_ as he tried to find ways around or over them. Most of them were so frozen over as to think they didn't even exist, but the arduous task of checking before walking or riding across it ate up even more time. It was three weeks before he found the third campsite, and was somewhere between relieved and irate to see it inhabited. An impressive pile of wolf furs were cured, and a figure covered in thick bear skins was sharpening a very specific knife.

"Myriam!"

The hunter turned around with a start. "Connor?" she demanded, incredulous. "What are you doing out in this weather?"

"Looking for you."

"Me? What on earth for?"

Connor dismounted and moved immediately to the fire. "Norris," he said by way of explanation.

He watched from under his hood and scarves as her eyes twisted into something dark and pained. "He doesn't want to see me," she said in a low voice. "Can't say as I blame him. We've been hurting, this last year."

"What you have been through does not matter," Connor said, working his numb face to make the words. "You must put your fears and concerns aside. Norris-"

"Just what has he been telling you?" Myriam demanded, instantly defensive.

"Nothing," Connor said quickly, loudly, with a bite in his voice as he cut Myriam off at the pass. "He has told me nothing because he is too sick to speak. He has consumption, Myriam, and he might not live through the winter."

The words sank in slowly, Connor watched as slow-dawning horror filled her face, watched her stance change and her breath catch.

"... What?" she asked.

Connor was in no mood to be charitable. "Norris is dying."

Myriam nearly collapsed to the log she had been sitting on, lost. Connor gave her the time, warming himself and his mount. "We will spend the night here," he said through chattering teeth. "We leave at dawn, and move as fast as we can. Do you have a horse?" Myriam nodded, numb in more than her body, and Connor was left to set up the camp for another occupant, finish salting and preparing the meat and furs that had been taken, and packing them up.

The ride back was almost as hard as the ride to. It was well into February, and there was few signs indeed that winter was going to let up any time soon. Sunny days were nearly impossible to travel because of snow blindness, and the wind cut through all of their layers to leave them numb and drowsy with the cold. The nights had them digging into snow drifts to cut out the wind and shelter the fire. Myriam's horse died one night leaving them to take turns trudging through the hip deep snow.

It was the second week of March when they finally arrived, and Myriam stopped at her camp only to unload her furs and meats before she all but ran to the village and Dr. Lyle's house. Connor stopped instead at the manor, hoping to see that the Old Man was faring well in this weather. He had not wanted to leave him alone – especially with a winter that buried them in snow and a fever spreading through the village – but bringing Myriam home might help Norris get better, and he could not abide doing nothing if there was something to do.

Clipper greeted him at the door instead of the Old Man, and Connor already knew what that meant.

"How bad?" he asked softly.

"Ain't consumption," the Virginian said quickly. "Though he coughs something awful. Dr. Lyle won't come out of his house but to speak through a window, and he says it's pneumonia."

"And the others?"

Clipper's face fell. "Doc's house is fit to bursting," he said. "The mine got hit real bad, the Old Man sent Jacob with a letter to Jamie, seein' as how he's a doc, too. Don't know how long it'll take to get to him, though, had to send it over land on account of the harbor bein' froze over. That's a lotta miles I reckon. Red Feather's still breathin', last I heard, and so's Nora."

Connor blinked. "_Nora_ has become ill as well?"

Clipper nodded, face grim. "You'd reckon kids would go first, bein' kids and all, but they're both real stubborn. Marie's doing much better, so's Hunter. Don't know why they're doin' right fine when Norris an' the miners are hangin' on by a thread. Everybody's wearing something over their faces. Dr. Lyle said it keeps the sickness from spreading, but he ain't looking so hot the last few days, neither. Preacher's worried he has the fever, too, says it's a miracle it's taken him this long to get sick."

"... I see," Connor said softly, chest tight with anxiety. "I will speak to the Old Man. Is he up?"

"Sleepin', last I saw," Clipper said. "Anne and Will are cookin', Joe's readin' – he's better'n me now."

Connor nodded, moving on silent feet to the back of the house and setting his senses to the closed door. He heard ragged breathing, and he turned the handle slowly, carefully, to stick his head in. Achilles was sitting in bed propped against a myriad of pillows, several pieces of paper crumpled up around him, a book in his lap. "I know it's you, Connor," the Old Man said, "You're the only Master Assassin in this house aside from me. Come in."

"I am sorry to disturb you."

"No disturbance," Achilles said, before his sentence ended with a small string of coughs, wet and rough. "No more than this blasted winter has been, at any rate." He coughed again. "Did you find Myriam?"

"Yes, she raced over here as soon as she understood the danger."

"And, has she gotten over her losses?"

"... No, I do not believe so," Connor replied. "We did not speak much, and her concern for her husband is great, but she was not as she used to be."

"... Losing a child is an incalculable loss," Achilles said. "Some people never recover from it."

Something in his tone burrowed in Connor's mind, and he was perfectly still as he realized just what that tone meant. Oh, Old Man... He shook his head, knowing how painful it was to touch on the past for him. "Clipper said you sent for Jamie?"

"He specializes in infections and diseases, as you may recall," the Old Man said, but gently. Connor felt a hand go up to his neck instinctively. "He and Dr. Lyle worked very closely when Mrs. Tanner was beaten and Mr. Walston was injured. They taught each other many things, but Jamie is still the expert, and we need that experience here. That was at the beginning of February, and even if Philadelphia wasn't so far away the dangers of traveling in this cold are beyond compare." He gave a level look to Connor. "How did you fare?"

"Winters at my home are like this," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Travel was slow, but I sustained no injury or damage."

Achilles nodded. "Small favors, then. It's finally starting to warm up, it feels like. The days aren't so bitter anymore we might see a thaw soon."

And two days later there was, in fact, a thaw – as much as could be expected anyway, with hip-deep snow covering the ground. The sun came out and Connor could hear the patter of melting snow on the roof. The bay was still frozen over, but looking out over it saw the familiar and beloved lines of the _Aquilla_, it pushed against the ice briefly before taking anchor and taking a rowboat out until it could dock on the ice. Faulkner and the Clutterbucks came up, as did the thick beard and tall hat of Jamie, who stopped at the manor long enough to drop off his things, announce his presence, and demand up update as he powered to Lyle's house-turned-hospital.

"Good man, your doctor," Jamie was saying. "Smart, too. Has more literature in his library about medicine than even the Bellvue Hospital. I wouldn't have thought of boiling utensils, but he took one idea I read about and ran with it. How many are infected?"

"Marie, Red Feather, Nora, Hunter, Norris, and four miners; I never got their names," Connor said.

Jamie balked. "That's all?"

"Yes."

"And they're all alive?"

"No. The miners except Norris are dead. Norris is hanging on by a thread, the children seem to be well enough."

"Man's a miracle worker," Jamie muttered. "What's this the letter said about covering faces? How is he treating the fever? What cultures has he been using?" The questions after that flew well over Connor's head, but he answered as best he could until they were at the house. Myriam answered, heedless of the quarantine, and saw Jamie and let him in. Connor could go no further, and went instead to the church. He did not feel comfortable praying to the white man's god, but he wanted to make an offering to Iottsitíson, explain to her that these people were precious to him, had helped him on his journey to defeat the _atenenyarhu_, see if she could send aide. He collected tobacco from Ellen and many others, gathered some dried herbs from the root cellar, and asked the preacher for permission to use his holy house. Father Timothy was more than happy to oblige, "We need whichever god will listen," he said simply, and allowed Ratonhnhaké:ton to do his ceremony. Prudence and Ellen both attended, as did Anne and Joseph, and slowly others as well, as Ratonhnhaké:ton made his offerings and prayed in his native language.

Three days later, in the middle of a heavy snow squall, there was a boom of thunder that shook the manor, and Ratonhnhaké:ton breathed a visible sigh of relief. The Thunders had answered his prayers, and the good omen told him all he needed to know.

* * *

The days continued to warm after that, and by late March, while it still snowed on occasion (to the dread of _everyone_) the harbor had melted and the river had thawed. Almost as soon as the bridge was free the Scotsmen banned travel on it, saying that the frost heaves of the winter had damaged it too much to use it, and they and Lance picked through their respective collections of wood to find beams adequate enough to serve as replacements and determine how to perform the repair. The northern villagers had to use a slippery series of stones beyond the waterwheel of the lumber mill to cross south and vice versa – a risk Prudence did daily to check on the wellbeing of her precious son. Soon even this disappeared as the multitude of snowmelt flooded the river to the highest levels ever seen, and for two weeks the settlement was cut in half before the runoff lowered enough, and the current weakened enough, for Godfrey, Terry, and Lance to repair the bridge.

Achilles slowly defeated his pneumonia. Many nights Connor sat with the Old Man, playing fanorona or simply reading by dim candle light. The cough, fever, and fatigue wore on the Old Man, and as the weather continued to warm, the strength of old did not return to Achilles, as Connor had secretly hoped. He learned slowly, as he watched his dark skinned mentor fight his illness, that Achilles was old: almost seventy. He worried for him as he worried for Oiá:ner, worried that both of them would be taken from him too soon, when he was not ready to let go, as his _ista_ had been ripped from him. As... as Kanen'tó:kon had been.

His hands would start to shake then, and he would quietly leave his mentor's bedroom, instead running in the April chill, pushing himself as hard as he could, to quiet the omnipresent anxiety in his chest. He was twenty-four, now, surely, he had come to understand his heart by now, surely, he had grown to the point where this pain did not consume him so completely. But it could not be said, his chest was constantly tight as he watched Achilles work through his pneumonia, or he passed the locked box known as Dr. Lyle's house, or when he thought about Nora and his littlest cousin.

The first of May brought a letter from Boston – specifically Lafayette, explaining that he was back in the Americas and that he brought news with him. A week later the French Council of Assassins sent word as well, explaining the extraordinary efforts of Lafayette to garner French support for the war. Benjamin Franklin's grandson had given him a gold-encrusted sword commissioned by the Continental Congress in thanks for his services, and the prison he had been thrown to at last word apparently only lasted a week thanks to the intervention of one of the French Assassins, Mirabeau. The king demanded an audience with the young upstart who was heralded as a hero by the French people, and the Assassins reported that the king lauded the strategies Lafayette and Washington had used against the English – so impressed he placed Lafayette back on the dragoons, whatever they were, and Lafayette and the Assassins started lobbying for support. The French Assassins reported that it had been secured – the news Lafayette was bringing, and the interesting tidbit that the son that had been born without Lafayette's knowledge was now named George Washington Lafayette. Connor smiled sadly at the news, knowing that his French friend did not know the commander as he did.

A week later Dr. Lyle released the quarantine on his house.

The entire village gathered to watch friends and neighbors exit the house weakly, finally deemed clear of the consumption and hale enough to go home. Hunter ran to a crying Prudence's arms, and Myriam half carried her husband home, closer than either of them had been in over a year. Red Feather carried a large pile of blankets to be burned but stopped when he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton, dark eyes wide and filled with emotion, before he dropped the blankets and darted up to the native.

"_Niá:wen,_" he said with terrible pronunciation. "I dreamed that you were in front of me, with your _tomahaac_, fighting the Stone Coats. And then there was thunder, and I was well again."

Ratonhnhaké:ton was beside himself to hear such a thing, he had no idea how to even rebuff the statement – he had done very little indeed to help with the outbreak...

"Nora was scared," his little cousin said, "She said she didn't want to go like her family did. Dr. Lyle said it was God's decision, but she fought really hard. She said she didn't want to let you down."

"She could never..." Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath caught, as he realized what Red Feather _didn't_ say, and he looked up to see that some people did not leave the house. The miners, he knew, had fared poorly, but Nora was nowhere in sight.

Jamie and what could only be described as the ghost of Dr. White arrived last, and everyone rushed up to give them God's blessings and well wishes and thanks.

"Damnedest thing," Jamie said back at the manor. "Lyle had a tea, made of interrupted fern, elk root, and other things I'd never heard of, and made them drink it morning, noon, and night, emptied his entire reserves. Had them cover their faces to prevent all that bad blood from spreading, things I only mentioned in passing or he read about once or twice he was creative enough to put together into something that _worked_. Man worked himself to the bone. This place is lucky to have him; I'm surprised his work isn't published more widely."

"It is well that he is here," Achilles said, looking at Red Feather critically. "But first we must morn our losses."

There was, it seemed, a small ritual for mourning a lost assassin. Though Nora was little more than a novice, she was still an Assassin, with hopes and dreams and desires that aligned with the Creed. They all hovered around a pair of graves, looking out over the cliffs and the bay as the sun set, silent for a long time. "She was a gift, for however brief her time with us was," Achilles said. "Go safely, Nora, safely to where your soul needs rest."

The words hung in the late April air, heavy. Anne was holding her face with her hands, Joseph tall and overly straight as he tried to reconcile the loss of his best friend and rival. William was grim faced while Red Feather swayed back and forth, face lost in thought and memory while Jacob and Clipper and Jamie all watched grimly.

Connor took out a feather, falcon, and quietly set it adrift in the wind.

Later, in the manor, Red Feather shared stories of their time in quarantine. "She lost family to it," he said softly, eyes glassy. "She didn't want to lose anyone else. She worked just as hard as Dr. Lyle, maybe harder. She held me a lot, rubbed my head and said it would be okay. Same with Hunter and Marie. If I had a mom I think Nora would've been like her. She made it... easy."

"She would," Achilles said. "She had a kindness about her."

"Always wanted to be the best," Joseph said. "Had something to prove to the world. Hated reading even though she was better at it. I remember..." his face smiled softly for a brief moment, before it twisted into something painful, lost in the moment before he could get ahold of himself. "Said she would be the first female Mentor ever. Said she'd make the world see what she had to offer."

"And she will," Achilles said gently. "Because we all remember her, and her memory will affect our deeds."

* * *

Eventually, though, Jamie had to get back to Philadelphia, and he took William with him. "We don't need as many physical types there, yet," he said, "but I need another set of eyes, and I have an eye on a good print shop. I'll need to borrow some money from here, but I should be able to pay you back." It was agreed upon, and soon it was just Anne, Joseph, and Red Feather.

The weather continued to warm, the Dr. Lyle slowly regained his strength after the outbreak. The entire village seemed to come alive with spring, people were out and about as they couldn't be in winter, the ground was an unseen novelty after so many feet of snow, and the roads went from frozen to muddy almost overnight. May saw the last of the snow disappear and greenery burst from the trees, brown fields turning green and the return of birds made the days noisy in a pleasant way. Connor watched the Old Man carefully, but Achilles covered his weakness well, sitting at his desk and writing or leaning on his cane as he oversaw training. Nora's loss pushed Joseph to work even harder; he was nearly as fast as Connor, now, though not nearly with as much endurance, and his literacy seemed to double overnight. His mind was sharp. Red Feather was not as good a reader, but he had the uncanny ability to extract information from anyone, making him a skilled spy with enough experience and training.

The village continued to enjoy the coming warmth as May pushed forward, the forests seemed to come alive almost overnight: muddy brown changing to green, the bright colors of apple blossoms, wildflowers everywhere. Pollen coated everything, turning roads yellow and making many people sneeze horribly. The days went from raw to warm, the sunlight lasting longer and longer, and the air grew uncommonly thick. Connor's morning runs were filled with brilliantly red sunrises to match the equally bloody sunsets. Even the midday skies had a pinkish hue, and even the wealth of knowledge Achilles possessed did not have an explanation for the odd meteorological shift.

And so it was, May nineteenth, that came the dark day. Connor had just finished his morning run and worked up a healthy sweat. He pulled at his _wampum_ armbands to prepare for a dip in the river before going back to the manor when he looked up and realized the sky was the color of cider. Confused, he stopped what he was doing and powered back to the manor to ask the Old Man what was happening. The fifteen minute hike had the sky grow darker and darker. An eclipse?

"No," Achilles said before Connor was even fully in the door. "It's not an eclipse, the last one was back in 1772 down south."

By ten in the morning the sky was as black as night, birds went to sleep and crickets chirped. Connor rode into the village and saw everyone moving to the church to pray. Prudence was talking about the Day of Judgement, and clutching the only just-recovered Hunter close while Warren muttered in French. Ellen was pale in the torchlight, Big Dave holding her gently. Others were bound and determined to do their duty. Dr. Lyle, no stranger to the faith, was flatly telling Oliver and Corrine that, "If the Day of Judgement is really coming, I'd rather be taken doing my duty."

As the day wore on, lunch had to be served by candlelight, and the heavy scent of smoke filled the air. Connor, moving up and down the village to assure everyone that things would be fine, saw dimly that the rivers had accumulated soot. A forest fire? How far away and how big could it _possibly_ be to blot out the very sun? He shook his head, wondering if Iottsitíson was testing him in some way, urging him to heal faster so that he could kill _Lee_ and make his valley safe.

The thought was on his mind constantly. He would look out over the cliffs, even in this pitch darkness, and wonder what damage _Lee_ was doing, what his _raké:ni_ was plotting. His mind was still a tangled mess even after a year of trying to understand Monmouth, understand what Haytham Kenway had been willing to do to break his son from his alliance with Washington and switch support to the _atenenyarhu_ that had eaten his _ista_ and his village. The largest piece, the one thing he couldn't understand, was that Haytham could so easily wipe away the trauma of his childhood, dismiss it as trivial and just _ignore_ it in favor of his political maneuvering. Losing his mother _defined_ Ratonhnhaké:ton, everything he had done was born of that event: his anxiety, he desperate need to protect his valley, his unbending sense of right and wrong, leaving the village, the vision of Iottsitíson and the Quest she gave, meeting Achilles, his training, learning the Creed, everything came from that one distilled moment in his life. Even Haytham, in the precious little he had divulged of his own past, hinted that his entire life had been defined by the loss of his own _raké:ni_, Edward Kenway. Did he dismiss his own trauma? Was that why he dismissed Ratonhnhaké:ton's?

He had no answers, nor did he have answers for Washington. That broken relationship hurt just as much as Haytham's. Washington was a kindred spirit, a man of moral fiber trying to keep his ideals close and protect his people. But unlike Ratonhnhaké:ton, Washington could, would, and _did_ compromise his morals. He was as duplicitous as Sam Adams, and while Connor admired both men, he had learned the hard way that he could not _trust_ them. They had their own agendas, and neither of which aligned with Connor's. Was the settler world truly so complicated all the time? The Haudenosaunee were so much simpler.

… But were they really? The war had split the confederacy for the first time since the Great Peacemaker. The nations fought with each other as much as they fought with the Americans, and now they were desperate enough to name war chiefs that would raid the settlers and perpetuate the cycle of hate. Was Ratonhnhaké:ton's perception colored by the naiveté of childhood?

And what role did he play in all of it? He looked down at his hands, still remembering the blood, the feel of his best friend limp in his arms, the unending sobs. He thought of the death of William Johnson, the lack of catharsis, and the painful rift he had created with his own people without realizing it. Did he deserve this pain? This uncertainty? Was this the price he paid for doing the will of Iottsitíson? Was Kanen'tó:kon...?

Was the death of Kanen'tó:kon the price of his journey? Or was it his failure that led to that gut-wrenching night? Would he ever know the difference...?

The darkness lasted until nightfall the next night, and Ratonhnhaké:ton only felt relief when he finally saw the sunrise. The night had brought very dark thoughts with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing goes easy for Connor. The worst winter of the war after his people are decimated by the Sullivan Expedition, tuberculosis (aka consumption) overtaking the village, losing Nora, to the weird but true anomaly of New England's Dark Day. Achilles is getting weaker, Lee is still out there to obsess over and, well, life just kinda sucks for him. But this is just the lull, the quiet before things ramp up. There isn't really much to say here, that and the fact we just saw Star Wars and WHAAAAAA it was exactly what we wanted! Ah, the plot bunnies that generates...
> 
> Next chapter: Washington. Tallmadge. Benedict Arnold.


	28. Benedict Arnold

June seemed to be exceedingly normal after the dark day. It was warm and humid, hot, with thunderstorms and bright sunny days. After the strangeness of that dark day, many in the homestead considered it a gift from God. Connor wasn't so certain, but he kept training Joseph, Anne, and Red Feather, and looking after Achilles, who was hobbling more and more.

The Old Man didn't care for the hovering.

"I'm fine, Connor."

"I know."

"You don't. You hover around me like a bee waiting to sting."

And Connor was kicked out of the manor and told to "do something useful".

With a heavy sigh, he headed down the hill to the village to see if anyone needed assistance. The Freemans were fine, summer providing extra hands for planting and caring for the crops, and Hunter was starting to get small responsibilities, like helping Prudence collect eggs from the hens or helping to feed the chickens.

Lyle, once more hale and healthy, was studying some of the herbs in his garden and wished to know if he could visit more native tribes. Connor ignored the rip that opened in his heart.

"That would be... difficult," he said softly. "My people are divided and fighting in the war. Though which side seems to depend on each village."

The doctor gave a grimace, putting down his pencil and notes. "I am sorry, Connor," he said softly. "For all that we read of the war here, for all that the British _were_ here hunting down Big Dave, the war seems very far away. I'm afraid that nestled in this valley, finally safe, we forget that."

Connor nodded. "But this valley is what these united states can be," he replied. "Many peoples of different backgrounds and heritages, coming together and understanding each other and helping each other. Here a woman is not an object to win. Here an African is not a resource to sell or trade. Here, people like me are welcomed and accepted. Here it does not matter if you are British or Irish or Scottish or American or Native or African or man or woman or child. Here what matters is what you can _do_."

"Hmm," Lyle rubbed his chin. "I never really thought about it like that." Then he smiled. "I rather like the idea."

They continued to chat and exchange pleasantries and Connor had to admit, he felt better for it. The ache of what was happening to his people still existed. There was no way to fix that and the danger was still there. The problem too complicated for Connor to be able to even think of a way to fix it, let alone _do_ it. But the moment of peace, talking with a friend who was so different from Connor, but they still understood each other... _That_ was something that could soothe much of his inner pain.

"Now," Lyle said at the end. "I have some medication for Big Dave." Standing, he walked to his medicine cabinet and pulled out a small glass bottle. "Would you mind delivering this? The Freemans want me to give little Hunter a checkup. They're understandably nervous after the consumption ran through here."

"I will be glad to."

The hot June day became even hotter when Connor entered the smithy. Big Dave, cane discarded and leaning against a wall, was hammering away a long thin hunk of metal that didn't have any discernible shape yet.

"Afternoon, Connor," Dave greeted as he put the metal back into the furnace to heat up. "What can I do for you?"

"Doctor White has a prescription for you," Connor pulled out the carefully wrapped bottle.

"Ah, he worries too much," Dave replied. "Only acts up in cold weather. And as a smith I don't deal with cold much, even after that last winter."

"That may be," Connor replied, "but it is delivered nonetheless."

Dave chuckled and took the bottle. "That doctor will worry himself into a grave if he's not careful."

Grinning, Connor couldn't help but nod. "And what are you working on?"

"Oh a million orders for a million things," Dave replied. "Some merchants are trying to set up a trading post down at the docks rather than riding uphill and then down into town so they've ordered a lot of nails and braces and hammers. Freemans need a new plow; the cold winter didn't help the last one. Godfrey ordered a new sawblade, a real big one for the mill. Lance needs a new saw. All those interesting things you and Achilles always order. List goes on and on."

"You are keeping busy." Connor pointed to the metal that Dave was heating up. "But that does not look like what you have on order."

And, despite being red-faced with the heat and dripping in sweat, Dave seemed to blush and looked distinctly bashful. "Oh... ah..." he gave a nervous grin. "That's..." he let out a heavy sigh, leaning against a table. "I'm making something for Ellen. Don't know if she'll care for it, or use it or anything. But... I admire that woman. She faced her demons and didn't flinch. Tried to make peace with them before the demon turned around and beat her senseless. Works hard to put food on the table of that little girl of hers. I... Well, she's a woman who deserves a few nice things."

Connor offered a soft smile and nodded. "She will appreciate it."

Dave shrugged, not as convinced.

"_Bonjour_?"

"Ah, Jacques! Come on in!" Dave called out. Reaching out he grabbed his cane and limped over to the door.

"Ah, _Grand_ Dave," the tall, muscular foreman of Norris greeted. "I am glad to see you."

Dave gave a rumbling chuckle. "I'm not all that hard to find."

"_Non_, but one is polite," Jacques replied. "Are zhe picks ready?"

"All set," Dave replied, patting a box. "Between you and Connor, I'm sure you can both finagle it onto your wagon."

"_Bien sûr_," the foreman smiled. "Norris wishes to visit next week. Will zhat be _bien_?"

"No problem," Dave replied. "Let him know my door's always open for him."

"He appreciates it, _mon ami_."

Connor helped Jacques heave the heavy box into the wagon outside under the hot June sun. Only the faintest of breezes from the small harbor brought any relief. "How is Norris?" Connor asked quietly. Being a miner, the Canadian didn't often come into town, and Connor worried. He had been incredibly weak after the consumption, and though Myriam had stayed with him at the Mile's End until he had enough strength to get back to work, Connor was unaware of how things had been going since.

Jacques grunted as he and Connor hefted the box. "He is... better. Myriam, she stays at his home. She has not gone hunting. Norris, he is happier, but... zhey still mourn. Neizher knows how to move on."

"The loss of a child is difficult." As was the loss of a mother, as Connor knew all too well.

"_Vrai_. But zhey are trying to reconnect."

"You have been a good friend for Norris," Connor observed.

"He gave me an opportunity when few would simply because of my skin," Jacques replied quietly. "I will support him as long as I can. Zhe rest of zhe miners agree. Norris, he is soft-spoken and shies from conflict, he is not what many would call a strong man. But he is a good man, and zhe world needs more of him."

"The same can be said for all in this village," Connor replied. "Including you."

Jacques's smile was bright and blinding in the June sun. "Have a good day, Connor."

"You as well."

It was the middle of August when a knock came on the door and Connor, reading the news sheets in the office, got up to answer it. Achilles was resting in his room, saying that the heat was simply too heavy to walk around in and Connor did not wish for the Old Man to get up when he was clearly letting his age start to catch up.

Opening the door, Connor was surprised to see a familiar face that brought up such dark memories.

"Hello, Connor."

"Benjamin Tallmadge," Connor's brows rose. "This is a surprise. Please come in."

Tallmadge pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the sweat from his brow. He guided the spy to the office before heading to the kitchen to set a kettle and get tea brewing. Jacob had Anne and Joseph outside sparring while Clipper was out in the woods with Red Feather to learn about tracking. With the coffee brewing, Connor went across the hall to Achilles, who was coughing as he read a book.

The Old Man looked up, no doubt having overheard the greeting in the hall.

Connor hesitated at the door, not certain what to say or why he even came. He wasn't a boy any more, he didn't need to seek Achilles's advice every time something happened. But...

Achilles didn't say anything, he only stared at Connor with weary understanding. Connor grimaced, memories of the prison, the anger and helplessness, the hatred, all surfacing even after years of recovery.

"Memories only control you if you let them," Achilles said softly, looking back to his book. "Tallmadge may bring up dark memories, but he wasn't the cause and you already know that. You know he was not responsible for your imprisonment, you know he contacted us as soon as possible and that he did everything he could to keep Hickey in jail and get you out. Let the past stay in the past."

Connor nodded, feeling better. "I will."

"Now get out of here, your kettle is ready to whistle."

Coffee ready, Connor brought in the two cups to the office and set them down at the desk before taking a seat. "I am surprised you have come," Connor said softly. "I would imagine that ferreting out British secrets keeps you busy."

"It does," Tallmadge replied, sinking back into his seat and looking exhausted. "More so than one would think."

"So what brings you here?"

Tallmadge took a sip and looked to Connor. "Washington did something terrible to you and your people. I won't even try to justify it. I argued against it when I heard of it, but my message arrived too late. But I need your help. And that might mean meeting and having to work with Washington."

Connor stilled, his cup halfway to his lips, and simply took the moment to let all that wash over him. Monmouth, the Sullivan Expedition, it all swelled and Connor stayed still as it all swirled within him. _Lee_ was still alive, retired and released from duty, happy on his estate in Virginia, and writing harsh criticism of Washington that often lead to duels. All because Washington would not stand aside and let Connor _kill_ the _atenenyarhu_.

Great emotion boiled and fumed, anger, anxiety, regret, sorrow, loss... Connor let it swirl as he stayed completely still and just _let_ it.

Finally he simply let out a breath and gently put down his cup.

"I understand," he said softly. "I... do not care for Washington. He is good for the army, he is good against Congress, he is and inspiration to the people of America. But I cannot care for him. The cause of America, freedom from those who would control us, those who would enslave us or limit us, I will always support. I suppose by that logic, I support Washington, as a leader. But as a man..." Connor shook his head. "What is it you seek?"

Tallmadge nodded in sad understanding. "I would send you word if I had found what I knew to be a Templar. Templars are for Assassins, not spies or armies or Congress. But I have a sense of something that..." Tallmadge let out a long sigh and rubbed at his face. "I don't think it is Templar. In fact, I doubt it. But it might be a risk to us. A _large_ risk. For the American cause. It requires more stealth than I can provide."

Connor blinked. "More stealth than a spy can provide?"

"More than this spy can provide," Tallmadge gave a self-deprecating grin. "Spies are known. Both sides are aware and are careful. But _Assassins_. Well, that's an old dead thing from the Crusades, isn't it?"

Connor's answering grin was anticipatory. "Do explain."

It seemed Tallmadge had concerns, but no proof, about Major-General Benedict Arnold. A Connecticut businessman who had faced hardships growing up with an alcoholic father that had left him in debt, Arnold had turned things around after his father had died and became a successful pharmacist and bookseller in New Haven. After business picked up, he had acquired three trade ships and ran a successful West Indies trade fleet, which Arnold himself would often command. As the Sugar and Stamp Acts passed, he kept sailing and just ignored the laws. A captain in a Connecticut militia, he and his men marched up to Massachusetts after Lexington and Concord and helped in the siege of Boston. Arnold had had various occurrences during the war, from capturing Fort Ticonderoga from the British, working as an advisor in Congress, disasters in Canada that had resulted in a shattered leg, the Battle of Ridgefield in Connecticut, distinguished service in the Battle of Saratoga which left his leg again severely wounded and two inches shorter.

After so long a record, when the British had finally left Philadelphia, Arnold, with his injured leg, had been left with the defense of the city. While in Philadelphia, he had married his second wife, the daughter of a well-known Tory.

"He's an angry, angry man," Tallmadge explained. "He's ended up in duels, harbors bitter feelings whenever he's passed over for promotion, and he's just rich enough to have power in Philadelphia. He was court-martialed. Would have been court-martialed before if he didn't have good friends higher in command like Gates. But he was court-martialed this winter. Miraculously cleared of all but two charges. Then Washington puts in a polite but public rebuke and Congress starts investigating how he's loose with American money and doesn't always pay it back. He resigned and I thought that Arnold and his scandals would be gone for good."

"But?"

Tallmadge continued. "People are talking about bringing him back and giving him command of West Point."

"Other officers have faced scandals and remained good commanders."

"I know," Tallmadge reached up and ran a hand tiredly through his hair. "There's nothing in particular that stands out. But something isn't setting right. After resigning in such a huff, why is he so willing to talk about coming back? What's enticing him? He's a man after power and prestige. Money and fame. He may be on decent terms with Washington, but he'll be back to working with people who don't always like him. He's a good merchant, why isn't he going that way since he'll make a lot of money?"

"You question his motives."

"I talked to the professors at Yale. He hasn't changed since he graduated there from what I've learned. Angry and bitter before he even joined the army, and more angry and more bitter now. So why return?"

Connor nodded. "And West Point?"

"A good fort overlooking the Hudson River Chain. Critical to prevent the British in New York from sailing up river to meet the British in Canada and cut off New England all together."

"Then this is indeed worrisome."

Tallmadge let out a tired sigh. "My Ring is stretched thin. New York is the best place for information, or other British controlled forts or ports. I can't pull people to spy on _our own_ people."

"You have a valid concern," Connor agreed. "No matter what, you won't leave until tomorrow. You can stay for the night while I think on this."

"My thanks, Connor. And I'm sorry I had to come to you with this where there's no Templar in sight."

* * *

The following day, Connor packed along with Tallmadge.

"Are you certain?" Tallmadge asked. "There is the chance of you seeing Washington."

"I cannot avoid the man simply because the country is vast," Connor replied. "I have... calmed since our last encounter. I can be civil."

"He does regret it, you know."

Connor's mouth thinned. "Does he regret what happened to my people or does he regret losing me, so staunch a supporter?"

"... I don't know."

Still, they traveled to Philadelphia, the captain of the boat having several lookouts in fear of either French, British, or American ships spying them and making trouble. Connor avoided visiting Jaime or William, not wishing for Tallmadge to know of Connor's own connections in the city. Though Tallmadge was an ally, he worked for Washington, and Connor just couldn't trust the Commander any more. Connor spent the sail learning more of Benedict Arnold from Tallmadge, and of the long list of incidents that seemed to show that Arnold was indeed, an angry, angry man. Once in the city, Tallmadge checked in with several of his people and even met with several congressional delegates to see where things stood.

"Damn it," Tallmadge swore. "Washington agreed to give West Point to Arnold."

"I will ride up to West Point," Connor said. "I will observe and send word."

"Good. I'll try and make the Commander see some sense."

It was a week's ride to get to West Point, and safer than trying to go by water and all the British ships in both New York other harbors close by. Located on an unusual s-curve in the Hudson, the Fort consisted of a series of redoubts and a chain across the river itself to prevent the British from sailing it. Connor stayed to the trees, not having any way to blend in to the fort without being a soldier assigned to a unit. With no direct way in, he stuck to his spyglass and sharp ears, and his inner eagle. What he saw and observed, was not something he cared for.

There was no denying that West Point was indeed a strategic and necessary outpost on the Hudson River. With the chain across the water and the hill overlooking the river, it was an ideal location for the fort. The Polish engineers who had spent the past two years building it had done a remarkable job with laying out the redoubts and ensuring a fortress that would be difficult for the British to take. The only hope of anyone to conquer the fort was by siege.

Which was why Connor was concerned as he sat up in trees and watched and listened. Arnold, when taking over West Point, also had command of the entire Hudson River Valley, from Albany to the British lines outside of New York. The chain across the Hudson needed repairs but nothing was ever done, troops were moved all along the river but few were ever actually _stationed_ at West Point. Supplies, be it food or ammunition, were drained away from the fort. Subordinates, who had long served under Arnold were often heard grumbling.

"We're giving ammunition out _again_? Where to this time?"

"Washington made a plea for supplies forts could spare."

"_Spare_? We can't spare this much!"

"What is the Major-General thinking?"

"He's selling them on the black market again, what else?"

"Oh yeah, he was court-martialed for something like that, wasn't he?"

"Owed Congress a thousand pounds from Canada, I think..."

It was subtle, but West Point was being steadily weakened. If the British were to take it, there would be very few losses to the regulars. But who was behind it? Connor was fairly certain it was Arnold, but there was no proof and Tallmadge couldn't act on anything other than proof. Washington preferred the _courts_ to decide.

September continued to be hot, but with intermittent days of cool that reminded one that the seasons were starting to change. On the fourth, Connor's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to a carriage leaving the fort. There was something about it, something about the woman inside it that just kept pulling his attention. Something that his inner eagle found worthy of note.

So Connor followed. The carriage rode all day and then stopped for the night in a small farm town. The woman acted nervous, but not in any overt manner that anyone without a trained eye would notice. Connor watched from across the inn, sedately eating his meal as the woman glanced around and held a purse closely, but otherwise showed no sign that something might be amiss and that she might be nervous.

Narrowing his eyes, Connor continued to observe. Once night fell and guests were finally asleep, he quietly slipped into the woman's room and easily found the purse. Inside was a sealed letter, and with great care, Connor lifted the seal without breaking it, then copied the letter by moonlight. Carefully replacing the seal, he took his copy back to his room, lit a candle and frowned.

A cypher.

Most who wished to keep communications secret used cyphers and it was one of the many lessons the Old Man had pounded into his head when he was a mere teenager. Connor was hardly as adept as Jaime at breaking the codes, but he was capable. He spent the rest of the night switching letters around and replacing each broken, nonsensical word with something more understandable.

Once it was done, he hissed in a breath.

_Traitor_.

Major-General Benedict Arnold was going to _betray_ the country! But _why_? If it hadn't been for Arnold, the Americans would have lost at Saratoga, he had been wounded _twice_ for his country, _why_? A hero turned traitor!

Anger flared hot within Connor and he deliberately sat as still as possible, just letting the rage roar before letting out a long breath.

Arnold was a traitor.

Connor swiftly wrote to Tallmadge. The copy he had wouldn't be proof, but it would be enough for Tallmadge to pull more resources and start preparing a net. The woman, a wife of a prisoner-of-war would still deliver the letter to New York, but Connor would now be the predator on Arnold's tail. He wished he had another Assassin with him, to act as courier, but New York was almost sixty miles away. That would take three days to get word to Dobby and would she be able to drop whatever she was doing to come?

It was a risk.

But he needed to take it. So with the letter Connor wrote to Tallmadge, he also wrote one for Dobby. Only this one was written in invisible ink _and_ in code. The following morning he posted them, then rushed back to West Point.

Arnold stayed near the fortress, riding out on "inspections" from time to time, which Connor took to be an excuse to be away for a whole day if necessary. But he remained within normal routines and none of the men he commanded, many of whom thought highly of him after his heroic work at Saratoga, realized that he was plotting betrayal right in front of them. In many ways, Connor was tempted to just kill Arnold. The man had betrayed his own cause, and would see others dead for his own profit. But the man was not a Templar. His actions were reprehensible, but it was not Connor's place to administer justice. For all that Connor had _seethed_ at Washington seeking to use laws to imprison _Lee_, Connor could not argue that that was what laws were _used_ for. True laws, not those designed to make others wealthy or powerful, or benefit those who viewed themselves above others. Laws were meant to ensure everyone had a fair chance and that others did not take advantage of the powerless. If _Lee_ had been a man, Connor might have been satisfied with the courts. But _Lee_ was Templar and _atenenyarhu_. He was _Connor's_ responsibility. Taking down _Lee_ would take planning and care, more than Connor had used until this point, so that nothing could lead back to him. Lessons in stealth finally applying to all Connor did, and not just the hunt.

But Arnold was just a man.

Connor would not kill him.

But he _would_ ensure the betrayal failed.

Five days later, Dobby started wandering the woods and Connor easily found her and brought her to his camp.

"There's trouble in the army, I understand."

"Major-General Arnold is seeking to deliver West Point to the British."

Dobby's language was less than polite.

"He is to meet a Major André of the British in two days on the eleventh near Dobb's Ferry. He will be traveling by boat."

"Damn," Dobby cursed. "Boat's faster than horse. We won't be able to keep up."

"But we can lie in wait," Connor explained. "I know you have just arrived, but I want you in Tarrytown tomorrow. Look for any sort of word heading for Major André and intercept it. I am still waiting on word from Tallmadge."

"I understand," Dobby nodded, looking over the map. "There's a Culper Ring fellow in Yonkers. I can get word to him. He knows I'm good for information. He'll have more direct word for Tallmadge."

Connor nodded, idly wondering at how quickly Dobby had managed to find and become connected with the Culper Ring in her time setting up her bureau in New York.

The next morning, Dobby rode off again and Connor rode further down river so that he would have an easier time keeping up with Arnold.

Following Arnold on land when Arnold was on the river was difficult, particularly since Connor didn't know when he'd be disembarking. He cut over land where he could, and was glad that he watched the traitor settle in for the night at a home and was very friendly with his host. Dinner at a local inn had Connor learn that the home was owned by the Hett Smith family, specifically Thomas who had his brother Joshua staying. Thomas was away on business.

Connor frowned. Joshua Hett Smith. Another conspirator? Or innocent man simply playing host to an American hero being none the wiser? Connor frowned and wondered but continued to follow Arnold's rowboat.

Dobby had done her work at Dobb's Ferry well, because it was apparent that the British had no idea that a traitor was coming and fired upon Arnold's rowboat. Both Dobby and Connor followed Arnold back to the Hett Smith house, then to West Point.

"They won't stop because of one misunderstandin'," Dobby said as they set up camp again.

"No. They will try again. Did your letter to the Culper Ring explain the situation and how Arnold is trying to contact the British?"

"'Course," she replied, stirring the stew over the fire. "If Tallmadge had any sense, and he has more sense than the average man, he'll be in the area keeping an eye out and having the locals listening to everything and anything."

"But will word have reached Tallmadge?"

Dobby could only shrug. "Tallmadge is hard to find if he's not lookin' to be found."

His Assassin heritage, no doubt.

Both kept a firm eye on West Point and the Hudson River, Connor listening closely to his eagle for any signs of communication or Arnold leaving. With the week they had intercepted another coded cypher, arranging for September twenty-second for a new attempt at meeting. This time actually _at_ the Hett Smith house, only fifteen miles south of West Point. Dobby sent another letter to the Culper Ring and Connor and Dobby lay in wait in the woods by the Hett Smith house, observing, when the twenty-second came around.

Spyglass to his eye, Connor looked out to the moonlight waters of the Hudson River, Dobby and her own spyglass looking to the house. It was just past midnight, insects loud around them with chirping and frogs belching. The occasional owl hooted and the temperature was still dropping from pleasant to just a touch chill.

"There," Connor whispered.

"I see 'em," Dobby replied. A rowboat was departing from the Hett Smith house and heading out to a British warship that had silently slid up the river.

Both lay waiting, watching as the rowboat meet the ship, then proceeded back to the house. Arnold's distinctive limp could be seen hobbling up with the rowers and the British officer.

"We should get closer and observe," Connor said, already stalking forward on silent moccasins.

They hid behind a stone wall on the edges of the property. Dobby kept an eye on the house and Connor kept watching the river.

An hour passed. Then two.

"They're takin' their sweet time," Dobby muttered.

"More time for Tallmadge," Connor replied, each both bored and tense as the hours crept by.

Another hour passed. Suddenly there was an eruption of cannon fire, making Dobby and Connor automatically crouch further into the darkness.

After a few volleys, Connor watched as the British warship set sail and slid back down river.

"There goes the British ride," Dobby whispered. "Wonder how he'll deliver word back to his superiors."

"We will know that when the meeting ends," Connor replied, still watching the river.

The meeting kept going, likely trying to figure out how to get the British contact back to British lines safely. It wasn't until an hour before dawn that there started to be signs that the meeting was breaking up.

"They just sent a man out to get horses," Dobby whispered. "Best be leaving."

"I agree."

The two slipped back into the shadows of the forest and to their horses.

"What should we do?" Dobby asked. "Split up?"

"No," Connor replied. "We know where Arnold will go. He will go back to West Point, secure in the knowledge that he has betrayed the Americans. But that British officer, he must be delivered to Tallmadge along with whatever agreements he has written down. That will be all the proof necessary."

They followed the British man, down the roads. He went slowly, attempting to look sleepy and non-threatening, perhaps a drunk finally ambling home.

"I do not like this," Connor observed. "There must be some way to capture him without questions being raised of us."

"We can say we work for Major Tallmadge," Dobby whispered back. "That won't be a problem. But it'd be best if spies aren't arrestin' spies."

"Do we know if militia are near?"

"All along the Hudson," Dobby replied. "Washington was certain o' that. If the British control this river, they cut us in half."

"Then they must be alerted."

"I'll ride ahead."

Connor nodded and Dobby rode deeper into the forest so that her gallop would not be heard. Connor continued to watch and trail after the British officer.

What had the British offered Arnold? What was his price for betraying his country and his people and his men? What had led a man who was supported and beloved down such a path? Arnold had put everything he had into fighting the British, twice wounded and with a disfigured leg as a result. So why? Connor could simply not understand. What made Arnold decide that it was no longer worth it?

A few hours past dawn and the British officer ran into a militia. Dobby was behind them, looking less like a woman and more like a man, no doubt the only way she could get the militia to listen.

The British officer introduced himself as John Anderson, and provided a pass, signed by Arnold, that would allow him passage.

Connor rode forward. "This man is not who he appears," he said softly as he exited the woods.

"Oh, and you are?" one of the militia asked.

"I work for Major Tallmadge," Connor replied. "I would recommend that this Mr. Anderson be thoroughly searched."

The militiaman scowled. "Oh, if you know who he is, why not just tell us?"

Connor shook his head. "The means that I found this man are suspicious, but I was not close enough to get names, though I could guess."

The third militiaman sighed. "Let's just get it over with. Our shift's almost done and I'm waiting for some sleep."

The so-called Anderson protested thoroughly but with the militia pointing muskets, he willingly submitted to a search.

"Nothing in his pockets."

The tired militiaman grunted. "Check the shoes. Spies always hide things in the shoes."

And sure enough, under "Anderson's" stockings, were papers.

"Good _God_," one of the militiamen gasped. "That's a map of West Point!"

"And this is a map of our army movements!"

While none of the militiamen could read, those maps were clear enough. "Anderson" was arrested and brought back to Tarrytown and brought before Colonel John Jameson of Virginia. Jameson, who _could_ read, was greatly disturbed by what he found.

Connor and Dobby followed, offering their story of watching a British warship sail upriver under the cover of night and this man meeting someone at the Hett Smith house up in West Haverstraw. Connor deliberately did not say that it was Major-General Arnold, since there was no way he could justify spying on an American general. Jameson was disturbed and immediately sent a courier to West Point to alert his superiors, specifically Arnold, of "Anderson's" arrest.

"Anderson" spent his time under arrest smoothly talking to Jameson, offering reasonable excuse after reasonable excuse, but Jameson would not be deterred. Instead, he wrote a letter out to Commander Washington, without any prompting from Connor or Dobby, and continued questioning "Anderson".

The courier must have been given extra horses to travel the thirty miles to West Point and back again by midafternoon. Unsurprisingly, Arnold's orders noted that he was "very desirous" of the papers and of "Anderson" himself to be delivered to West Point.

"That is unwise," Connor told Jameson. "Without knowing who this 'Anderson' was using as a contact, you might be giving word to the traitor that it is time to flee."

"Don't be daft," Dobby agreed.

But Jameson was not to be swayed. "I got my orders," he replied firmly. "I thank y'all for bringing this man to my attention, but I don't know you and I _do_ know how to follow the chain of command."

So, shortly after receiving orders from the traitor himself, Jameson sent a squad with "Anderson" headed back to West Point. The papers, however, Jameson kept. They were put with the letter to Washington.

Connor was talking with Dobby outside, in frustration.

"We cannot let André be delivered to his co-conspirator."

"I agree," Dobby replied. "It's the getting-through-the-Americans part I'm drawin' a blank on."

A horse galloped up, foaming in sweat, with a sweaty, dusty Tallmadge astride it.

"Connor," he greeted. "Am I too late? Who's in charge?"

"Colonel Jameson has allowed for 'Anderson' to be sent to West Point."

Tallmadge swore and leapt off his horse, storming inside.

To Connor's surprise, within ten minutes, a militiaman was galloping off to bring "Anderson" back.

"It seems you are quite persuasive, Major Tallmadge," Connor said when the spy finally reappeared.

Tallmadge was scowling. "Man was smart enough to send the papers to Washington but didn't realize to _not_ let that so-called 'Anderson' go?"

By evening "Anderson" had returned with the squad, but the courier had ridden on, to inform Arnold of the developments. Tallmadge was less than pleased and he, and Connor and Dobby, galloped off into the night to intercept and maybe prevent Arnold from escaping.

Connor could not help but shake his head. Connecticut had produced the traitor Arnold, and the hero Putnam. As a child he would have been confused on how such different men could come from the same place, but his years with the white man, seeing the overly-complicated society, the lack of regard for one another, the tendency to think of one another as objects. And in all that complicated society, had come the people of Rockport, his village that actually had a sense of _community_ and working together to improve one another. How complex the world was.

They galloped up to the fort at midmorning the following day, Tallmadge easily getting them inside, and quickly walked up to the headquarters to find Arnold.

To their surprise, they found Washington instead.

Connor scowled darkly, and fell further back.

"Mr. Tallmadge," Washington greeted, open surprise on his face. "I thought you were elsewhere."

"Matters came to my attention," Tallmadge replied. "Is Major-General Arnold about?"

To this, displeasure flashed across Washington's face. "No. We were to breakfast together this morning. He has not arrived and no one seems to know where he is."

Tallmadge swore. Vociferously.

"Mr. Tallmadge," Washington gently chided.

"Sir, we need to sit down somewhere private and talk."

Connor stayed behind, not interested in sitting down with the Commander, and he and Dobby took their horses to the stables for a good brush-down and rest after so long a ride.

"We will let the horses rest for today. Maybe tomorrow. Then we will leave," Connor said.

Dobby nodded. "It's out o' our hands now." She looked sideways to Connor. "You alright?"

Connor let out a long sigh, letting his shoulders drop. "To see Washington again... is not pleasant."

Dobby gave a sad nod. "Not hard to hear about all the raids north o' here." She gave a small shake of her head. "World's fallin' to madness."

"The Americans are fighting or freedom. I will always support that. But I had forgotten that Americans are white."

Dobby scoffed. "Don't go judging all o' us by our skin color."

"I know," Connor replied. "For many, the fate of my people is abstract, something far away that does not bother them. And the fact that my people matter so little is... hard to take, sometimes."

"Same for my people over in Ireland," Dobby replied quietly, filling grain into a trough. "I remember a wee bit o' it afore we came over. Mud houses, little food. All the land belonging to English lords and ladies. But any folk that live in London just say that Ireland's a peaceful little island that's good to holiday on. They've no idea what the _Irish_ live like."

"And many do not know what the native peoples of this land live like."

"But Connor, I have to wonder," Dobby filled another trough with grain. "Do your people know how the white man lives?"

Connor blinked, having never thought of it like that before. Then he frowned heavily. Because his people _didn't_ know what the white man was like. His people cared for how his people were treated, even as they divided between the Americans and the British, each was doing what they thought was best for _their_ people, not for _all_ people. "It would seem ignorance is found in people no matter their color," Connor replied heavily.

Later that day, they watched Washington ride out with his entourage and Tallmadge, no doubt heading to Tarrytown to question "Anderson." Connor and Dobby simply stayed at the fort, helping where they could, brushing down other horses, hauling water to the kitchens for boiling, etc.

It wasn't until the following afternoon that Washington, Tallmadge, and the entourage returned. Washington bore a dark look, but was otherwise calm. Tallmadge broke off to speak with Connor and Dobby.

"Washington's confirmed everything," he said, running a hand through his hair. "He's sent word to General Clinton that he will return Major André, 'Anderson' if you will, in exchange for Arnold. We'll see."

Connor shook his head. "The British would not give up a general of such ferocity and skill for one major. Clinton will refuse."

"Then Major André will hang," Washington said, arriving in the small closet of a room that Connor and Dobby were using in the barracks. The large Virginian looked regretfully to Connor, then bowed his head. "You have saved this army yet again. I wished to convey my thanks."

Connor's face twisted with all of his feelings, but he remained perfectly still, not even bothering to rise in greeting. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on controlling all the feelings within him, harnessing them, and letting them slowly release. He had promised Tallmadge that he would be civil.

So he _would_ be.

"I do not wish your gratitude," he replied softly as he stood, becoming an immovable oak. "Arnold has escaped. That does not deserve gratitude."

"If you could not catch him, nobody could have," Washington replied. He let out a long breath. "Whom can we trust now, if Patriot heroes are betraying us?"

Connor narrowed his eyes and said in pure politeness, "You reap what you sow."

Hurt flashed ever so briefly over Washington's face, before he was again the polite commander. "I suppose you are correct. Just as I have earned your anger," he said sadly. "It may not be what you seek, but you still have my gratitude." He nodded to everyone. "Good day."

No longer an immovable oak, Connor turned and looked away. Washington may have earned Connor's wrath, but from what Connor had learned, he hadn't earned Arnold's betrayal. Washington had fought for promotions for Arnold when he'd been passed over so many times, and Washington clearly relied on him, despite his financial indiscretions. Connor had been wrong to say that Arnold's betrayal was a result of the Commander's doings. Arnold's betrayal was a result of Arnold's anger and frustration.

And Connor didn't _want_ to regret the words he had so kindly flung at Washington.

It made for a very long sail back to Rockport.

* * *

By mid-October the weather was cooling almost every day and word arrived that André had indeed been hung since General Clinton refused to hand over Arnold. But what worried Connor was news of a battle in South Carolina. While the Americans had won at the Battle of King's Mountain, completely demoralizing the Tories in the area, it showed that the British were slowly starting to shift their focus more to the southern colonies.

"Clipper," Connor said one evening. "We need a bureau in the south. I was hoping that Gérald Blanc and his information network down in Louisiana, which remains more extensive than ours, could help provide oversight and information. He is still sending word when he can, but it is taking longer than I prefer."

"And we're getting word before those Louisianans can get it to us," Clipper agreed. "I'm also from the area. I 'spect you're sending me down to make a bureau."

Connor nodded. "Yes. Virginia may be well settled compared to Georgia, but I believe the Carolinas might be a better place to start. It will be in the middle of the southern colonies. Charlestown in South Carolina is a major port, which will make communication easier as you'll likely be sending word both here and to Gérald."

"I'd best take Red Feather with me as well," Clipper added. "Down south's rough country, people more likely 'n' not fightin' to survive. Likely be a lot more contact with the natives than up here, and Red Feather's good at gettin' people to talk. Big slave territory too an' I'd like Joseph 'ceptin' I don't rightly think he'll wanna come."

"I doubt that as well."

They continued talking late into the night and make preparations. The following morning, Connor ran the plan past Achilles over a game of fanorona.

"It's a solid plan," he said softly. "But Joseph won't do well down there."

"I agree. But with the rough country, I think Clipper will need more than just Red Feather. Red Feather is still very young and has more to learn than any of the other recruits. We need Jacob up here to train in the recruits we get in combat, and Anne, while extremely competent, is still lagging in fighting skills."

The Old Man gave a dry chuckle. "You're over thinking again, Connor. Anne will be fine down there. No, she may not be the powerhouse that you or Jacob are, but she's a dead shot and she can get into the social circles that Clipper won't stand a chance at."

"I do not understand," Connor replied, chaining a piece to six moves. "If the settlements are as rough as we have been told, there won't be society circles as there are in Philadelphia or New York or Boston."

"A port city like Charlestown?" Achilles retorted. "There will be. Maybe not as large, but there will be."

Thus, by the middle of November, with supplies and more importantly papers for a cover, Achilles and Connor and Jacob stood down at the docks and watched as Faulkner sailed off with Clipper, Anne, and Red Feather, to help them set up a bureau in Charlestown.

Achilles insisted on Thanksgiving again, and once more everyone gathered at the Mile's End. Since the town had grown, and was getting so large, several decided to have a quieter Thanksgiving with their families, but the first people of town, that Connor had found and rescued, they had no problem coming. Five-year-old Hunter was put with Godfrey and Terry's children, and as Connor learned, grandchildren as well. Apparently one of Godfrey's sons had a child during that bitter winter and had been unable to send word because of frozen harbors and dangerous snow-covered travel. With the children situated, everyone sat down for a warm gathering of friends and family. Father Timothy presided, since Achilles wasn't feeling up to it and Connor had no idea how to be a proper host. To Connor's delight, Myriam and Norris where there, side-by-side, and their smiles didn't appear forced.

Conversation flowed as everyone talked about how the harvest went, worries about the war, belief in Washington, that Connor stayed quiet about, and plans for the next year. The dinner lasted long into the afternoon and leftovers were dished out for a light supper before people finally started to break up and head home before dark.

Connor deliberately walked out with Norris and Myriam.

"You two seem better," he said softly. "I am glad of it."

Their smiles saddened a little, but Norris replied quietly, "We have spoken much since last winter. I was putting too much pressure on Myriam wizhout meaning to."

"You had a right to be happy," Myriam raised a brow. "It's not your fault that I don't know where I fit in."

"You fit with me."

"But we didn't know how to make that work."

"And do you now?" Connor asked.

Both glanced at each other, then nodded. "We s'ink so," Norris replied. "We have talked more of the future and what we wish of it. We are better prepared and are laying out foundations to grow on, _non_?"

"Yes," Myriam gave a soft giggle. "We thank you Connor. I'd, like as not, be still in the woods if it weren't for you."

"I have done little for you. You both have suffered greatly."

The pair laughed again. "Zhat is our Connor," Norris smiled. "Never knowing just how much he does for everyone in town."

* * *

The turn of the new year brought more news from the war effort. Connor dutifully read his newssheets, but their flamboyant and inflammatory writing were not nearly as informative as the letters from his fellow _Hirokoa_. Clipper was still getting settled in Virginia with Red Feather, but Jamie in Philadelphia and Dobby in New York and Stephane in Albany were a wellspring of far more accurate news: such as Washington's army mutinying. Jamie explained in detail that the army had been dispersed to smaller contingents during winter quarters to ease up on supplies, but the fundamental problems was the colonies – the states – themselves and how they supplied their sections of the army. Certain states were notoriously stingy, most notably Pennsylvania, and the army was finally fed up. Down south the army fought the Battle of Cowpens in South Carolina, and purportedly defeated the best of the best of Cornwallis' southern forces.

Word also arrived from Duncan in Boston, and a personal letter from Sam Adams himself, that he was retiring from the congress. Now fifty-eight, his hands had such terrible tremors that writing was nearly impossible. _More importantly,_ he wrote_, I miss the smaller politics of my home. The people in the congress are too different, and I wish to return to the world that I know best_.

Achilles weakened with the cold; they did not play fanorona as they used to, and his days were spent constantly resting. Connor worried, he did not wish to lose the Old Man, but he was becoming concerned that he was at the homestead so much. The first letter Clipper had sent from Virginia was that _Charles Lee_ was not at his plantation, and if he was in the wind, then where was he?

But the answer to that was obvious: Fort George.

Haytham's stronghold.

Haytham...

Connor could not forgive him. Not for what happened to his mother, not for what happened at Valley Forge with Commander Washington, not for his political views. So long as his father was a Templar, he knew that he could not reconcile with him, get to know him, learn about him as a man instead of a grandmaster. Haytham had made it perfectly clear that the only reason Ratonhnhaké:ton was still alive was so that he could be "saved" from his ignorant, naive ways. Haytham thought to cure Ratonhnhaké:ton of his faults, fix what needed to be fixed, and then welcome the perfect son back into the fold. Haytham Kenway did not realize that people were not meant to be _fixed_, but _accepted_, for who and what they were. At best people needed to be _taught_, and Ratonhnhaké:ton hoped to teach his father this fact, hoped to someday pierce the rhetoric and the arrogance and the... the pain his _raké:ni_ must have endured to be so damaged. Perhaps then he could bury the hatchet that was still imbedded in the column of the manor. It had rusted and worn, these many years – had it truly been so long? Seven years since this had all started? - but its symbol still burned in Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he knew with Lee's disappearance that his time to heal had finally come to an end. Healthy or not, he needed to refocus on the one goal that had driven him forward since he was thirteen: kill the _atenenyarhu_. With _Lee_ dead his people would be safe, and they would not have to worry about danger. Perhaps then he would be welcomed back...

He looked to his hands, that held so much blood. Kanen'tó:ton...

* * *

In February word arrived of Lafayette – the French noblemen always courteous and polite in his letters, that he was in charge of three regiments and going to Virginia to replace an ill General von Steuben. Rumor was Benedict Arnold was there, now at last in British colors, and Lafayette hoped to hang the traitor.

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrote his own letters, replies to Lafayette and his _Hirokoa_ of course, but also, through grit teeth, to Commander Washington. The commander needed to know that _Lee_ was missing and a danger to everything that the States stood for as they battled for their independence. He waited on baited breath for a reply, getting instead a letter from the French council in Paris that it had been decided if the world war (because this war was being fought in more than just the colonies, England and France had entire _empires_ to use as blood sacrifices in their bitter rivalry with each other) was to be ended it had to start in the Americas. Because of that, Mirabeau said, the French sent orders to their fleet in the West Indies to join _Général_ Rochambeau, commander of the French forces in the Colonies. Also, an enormous some of money was going to be invested in the war: rumors as high as six million _livres_.

The help heartened Connor, and he could feel in his bones the tides of the war changing. The Loyalists continued to fall back beneath the advancing Patriot army, their hold on the land weakening by the day. But the Templars only seemed to grow stronger. Though fewer in number, the threat they posed appeared undiminished. Letters from Dobby and Duncan and others said they had neutralized several members of the Templar cause already, and Ratonhnhaké:ton staggered to see their losses seemingly recoup so quickly. The major players, Warraghiyagey and Hickey, Church and Pitcairn, they had not been replaced so far as Connor's information could tell, but the structure of the Order still remained. He was reminded of the men, nameless, that had guarded Fort George in New York; they had been meaningless to the _Hirokoa _in the face of meeting his _raké:ni _and finding Benjamin Church, but now he realized belatedly he should have paid more attention. Those were the people that made up the bulk of the Templar forces, victims of their philosophy and ideals, convinced that their course was right even as they ate everything around them. Misguided as they were, however, they were still acting as the _atenenyarhu_ he had sworn to defeat, and he had been a fool to ignore them before.

Making matters worse, Washington chose to spare the life of _Charles Lee_. The reply he finally sent reiterated the arguments he had made that night in the camp, _we are a nation of laws._ That left Ratonhnhaké:ton unsatisfied, and he learned something new about the Creed, the latest paradox that Achilles so often spoke of in vague manner now becoming clear in his mind: _Here we seek to promote peace, but murder is our means_. It was not just an abstract on the violence that _hirokoa_ did, it was a testament to the irony of being a people who valued reason and law so highly being forced to subvert those very laws to keep humanity safe. However much the colonial constitutions and charters that Sam Adams held to so strongly, that his cousin John Adams litigated with such passion, their laws would not kill a man like _Charles Lee_ without first establishing his traitorous alliance to a thousand-year-old cause that nobody believed in any more. It was this very limitation, however rational to the men and women of these times, that prevented _Lee_ from being killed as he deserved. The settlers did not believe in _atenenyarhu_, did not understand the dangers of a spawn of Flint entailed. This, then, was Ratonhnhaké:ton's final mission: to save the Patriots from the demon in their midst. And that meant attacking Fort George.

Connor's time soon became consumed with searching for a way to breach its walls. Of his _raké:ni_, there was no trace. And Ratonhnhaké:ton was glad of it. If he can be rid of _Lee_, there might still be a chance for reconciliation - and through it, peace. More than anything else, Connor had grown weary of war, he had seen death and bitterness and ugliness, the worst of humanity as they became monsters against those perceived as enemies. He had seen hatred and bigotry and superiority in the everyday lives of the settlers, and he did not wish to continue such barbarism to his own _raké:ni_. If Haytham could be reasoned with, perhaps he could be brought to see there was a middle ground.

And perhaps that was foolishness, as Achilles so often insisted. But he had to try. One more time. Anything would be better than being forced to kill him.

March brought a string of letters: Washington sending more troops south with Lafayette and a French Admiral by the name of Destouche fighting off of Cape Henry. A large battle had happened at the Guilford Courthouse, decimating British general Cornwallis' forces and heartening the Patriot troops. Clipper said emphatically that things were heating up down south, and that things might come to a head as early as the end of the year.

Connor meanwhile sent his remaining _Hirokoa_ to New York. Jacob and Joseph were to make contact with Dobby and dedicate their time solely on finding some way, _any_ way, into the Fort. Once they had a way in... Connor sketched out what little he knew of Fort George; it had always been a stronghold of the Templars, but it was also utterly infested with the British regulars since they had made New York their northern stronghold. Clinton was a nobleman to his bones, prone to flattery and vain, his leadership narrow and filled with self-doubt: he was the perfect foil to hide Haytham and be utterly unaware of it. He pulled the maps of the city that he had and narrowed all his focus on the fort – it was a militarized district housing the regulars, closed almost completely to the Tory citizenry.

He sent letters to his bureaus and humbly asked for advice. Duncan replied by asking if freemason tunnels were in New York like they were in Boston. Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered Sam Adams speaking of such tunnels on occasion, had always considered exploring them himself but simply never had the time. Achilles, however, who once had an enormous stronghold in New York, said that yes there were tunnels and that he had a map of them somewhere.

By the end of May Connor had his maps and forwarded copies to New York. He also got word from Clipper that the Carolinas were emptying of British forces as they concentrated in Virginia. Jamie sent word that Washington and the French commander Rochambeau had met in Wethersfield Connecticut. Rochambeau was honorable, Jamie wrote, said that in spite of his forty years practicing war he was not there to command Washington but rather to serve – endearing him to the Americans just as Lafayette had done years earlier. They had agreed to gather their forces in White Plains, a small community thirty miles north of New York – effectively right under Clinton's nose. Orders were sent out to the French Admiral de Grasse, what they were Jamie didn't know. There were two choices to gather both armies: a major attack. Would it be New York, or Virginia? Connor hoped for the former, it would make infiltrating Fort George even easier: sneak in during the bedlam, find _Lee_, and kill him, find the Templar stronghold and raid it of all its documents, rid the world of their dangers. Maybe then, he could seek out Haytham Kenway...

As June warmed and Connor waited for word from Jamie in the army, or Clipper in Virginia, or Lafayette, or Dobby from New York – _anyone_, the wait was driving him insane. He eventually tried to distract himself from his plans, finally pulling himself away from the root cellar and out into the town. He had made it only as far as the lane leading into the valley when he saw Warren in a wagon full of produce riding down to the coast.

"Ah, Connor!" he said brightly. "Are you going to finally join us for market day?"

The young native blinked, processing the question slowly, before he dimly remembered being told that with regular trade the town had decided to make one day a week market day, to save the merchants from walking up the very steep hill to the main street of the community. Perhaps that would be a worthy distraction. "Yes," he answered finally.

"Excellent! Come, join me," Warren said, patting the seat of the wagon. Connor easily hoisted himself up and Warren flicked the reins to start the descent along the cliff. "Prudence is already down there; we ran out of food and I had to come back and get more. She is nervous to be by herself, but Ellen is there, and they are best friends. I cannot believe how wonderful everything has been since coming here; even bad things turn out well in the end, God had blessed this valley many times, it seems."

"It is through the work of all of us that has created these blessings," Connor said, mind still back in the root cellar.

"Well, if there was a source of all these blessings, it would be you, Connor," Warren said warmly. "You are the one who chooses who comes here, and you have the talent of finding the right people: Dr. White for Hunter, Mrs. Tanner for my Prudence, Father Timothy for the children, Mr. Walston for Ellen, and you cannot tell me you had no hand in picking Norris and Myriam; they are a match made in Heaven."

Heat rose in Ratonhnhaké:ton's cheeks that had nothing to do with the June heat. "I am nothing so lauded."

Warren laughed. "I hope someday you will come to understand the value we all place in you."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. He looked at his hands, thought of Kanen'tó:kon. "You should not," he said, memory darkening his vision. "There is much I have done that is..." he could not find the right word.

The simple log structures of years passed had grown to four stout houses and an open lane used for the market just feet from the pier. Tables lined the lane, and all of the townsfolk were there: Prudence of course, but also Ellen, Big Dave, Dr. Lyle, Norris and Myriam, Lance, even Godfrey and Terry, though it looked like they were gearing up for an impressive fight. Of course, it was that time of year.

The merchant ship was docked at the pier, the Aquila further in the bay. Merchants of all types were there, accents from every language Connor could think of: southern drawls, Irish and English, French, German, Spanish, even Italian. Faulkner was there, and as soon as he saw Connor on the wagon he waved the young native over. "Captain!" he said brightly. "This here is Captain Carlos Dominguez, one of the men under the Mademoiselle de Grandpré. He mostly sails the Caribbean, but he's come up here with some correspondence and trade. It would seem the Mademoiselle wants as many ports as she can get her hands on."

"Your port is pitifully small," Dominguez said, Spanish accent arrogant and flamboyant, "But the quality of your goods is adequate. La Mademoiselle suggested this place first."

"I am glad," Connor said softly. "Has she resolved her... difficulties?"

Dominguez shrugged. "How should I know? She hardly trusts me – though she is wise to do so. After her trip to New York she was as sharp as a poisoned thorn, but it was settled out by the end of the year."

… At least the last four years had been quiet for her.

They talked a little longer, but Dominguez was much better at his French than his English, and Connor had no hope of knowing more than the two languages he did. He moved through the market, watching as the merchants haggled bitterly with his townsfolk. Lyle was in a heated debate with someone over the benefits of some tonic or other while Big Dave was challenging a merchant to find better wares anywhere else. He had never seen this side of the village before, had never watched them _sell_. They were like different people, and he shook his head at the overly complicated process of settler trading. Goods were to be shared and not owned, one took pride in ones work, certainly, but not the pride of owning it but rather the pride of providing for the community for its own sake. He would never, ever, understand the settler's need to place value on _things_. In his village they would offer what was desired in exchange for what was needed; no more, no less: Furs for grain, bone for sinew, balanced by the needs of the greater society of the Confederacy.

The thought brought him pain. The raids were still so viscous, Stephane wrote, and almost completely unstoppable. How much blood had been spilt in his home? His village? He shook it out, wandering the stands and asking how everyone was doing. He could not let himself think on the fate of his home, because its fate was in his hands; once _Lee_ was killed Kanatahséton would be safe.

Ellen had several bolts of cloth and was wearing a dress of her making as living demonstration of her work. Next to her was Prudence, hair wrapped in one of Ellen's scarves, trying to negotiate with a customer. Shy as she was, it was not working out well.

"Please sir," she was saying, "Your price is too little. Perhaps you do not understand the value of the wool we have available. Mrs. Tanner here uses it often, and has told me several times that she will not get it anywhere else. Is that not so?"

"Of course," Ellen said brightly, face pleasant. "I don't pretend to know the secret the Freemans use in their animal feed, but their sheep produce very durable wool, almost tailor made for the loom as it were. Here, you can see the quality of the wool in this coat here, feel the texture, the strength. That's was Mrs. Freeman is offering, and you are a fool for paying so little."

"Now see here," the merchant said. "I shouldn't have to be paying a spade at all for their goods, she's lucky I'm offering anything to begin with. And you, woman, need to learn your place if you think you can haggle with someone as vastly superior as myself."

"Oh, truly?" Ellen was asking, fire in her eyes. "Tell me then: do you know the difference between a stem stitch and an outline stitch? The uses of cotton and silk thread? How many layers of petticoat are considered morally decent? How to custom fit a jacket for a man of your size? Do you understand the kinds of wool that are produced? If you can answer any of these, if you can prove your knowledge enough to prove that what you offer is the actual worth of the wool, then by all means do so. If you can't, then find someone who _can_ and do a better job bartering."

"You think I'll listen to a cheap harlot who moved out here to bed the lord of the manor?" the merchant asked. "I've heard about you, Tanner, and I'll not have your scandal sullying my business."

Prudence was nearly beside herself with the vulgar language, but Ellen openly laughed, drawing eyes from other merchants around the stand. "I would certainly agree with you," she said amiably, "if there _was_ a scandal to be had. But certainly, if you listen to gossip and rumors rather than know your craft, by all means."

"Are you trying to insult me, woman?"

"No," Ellen said brightly. "I don't need to."

The man took an aggressive step forward, but before Connor could intervene Big Dave was there, slapping his massive hand on the merchant's shoulder. "Well, well," he said. "Not every day you see a man as 'vastly superior' as yourself get put in his place by a pair of humble women, is it?" He squeeze the merchant's shoulder, a move that was clearly painful for the man, and leaned in. "Pay Mrs. Freeman what she asked or you'll be put in your place by more than those ladies."

Haggling went much simpler after that, and even amongst the anxiety Connor felt about his upcoming mission he gladdened to see that at least one facet of his life was doing well.

* * *

By the end of June word arrived from Lafayette that he was following Cornwallis' column. It was a bold show of force, he wrote, and inspired the new recruits under his command. Lafayette also shared a story of deserters where, upon their capture, Lafayette offered a release of service considering the coming danger. To his astonishment (though not Connor's), all the deserters decided to stay. Clipper, by contrast, wrote that Cornwallis _finally_ received orders from Clinton to build a deep water port in Yorktown, Virginia.

That changed the entire outline of the battle; if the British had a deep water port in the southern theatre then the entire naval map would change: it would grant access to almost a dozen major rivers from the Potomac to the James, allowing them to deeply penetrate the colonies with troops, from Virginia to Maryland to New York. New York City might be the epicenter of British troops, but the _mobility_ would come from them having the Chesapeake, and Connor slowly realized that he would not have his attack on New York to act as distraction. Letters came from Jamie and Dobby both that Washington and Rochambeau had finally met in White Plains on July fourth, the anniversary of the Congress declaring their independence, and that negotiations for the next major campaign were underway. Washington still wanted New York, but Connor knew the commander, and knew that he would cede to minds brighter than his own, and Rochambeau had much more experience. Effectively, that meant that the American and French armies would march south, likely the French navy would converge on the bay as well to prevent British escape, and a major battle of some sort would take place. Connor talked to Faulkner and asked that he get Lafayette to the manor if he could, the Marquis was the only Frenchman he knew with enough clout to ask the favor he wanted.

If all attention was going to be on Yorktown and the Chesapeake, then Clinton in Fort George would need a distraction. Connor happened to need one as well, and he needed more than just the Aquila for that.

Lafayette sent word that he would not be able to leave his men to see Connor, so Connor and Faulkner prepared to set sail down the coast to Virginia to meet up with the Frenchman and his necessary contacts.

Connor had finished writing letters to all his bureaus, letting them know he'd need their help in New York soon with various instructions and was stalking about the house for various things to pack for what he needed or might need.

Walking by Achilles's room, Connor frowned. The Old Man was still in bed, despite it being almost noon, and he was coughing again. He brought in a fresh pot of tea and a fresh pot of honey, which he'd been making daily for Achilles for almost a month now. It seemed to be the only thing that eased the coughing and sore throat that resulted from the constant hacking.

He set the tray by the night stand, and wondered how much longer Achilles would be around. Would he survive another cold Massachusetts winter? How much longer after that? The winter of two years prior had been extremely harsh and had weakened the Old Man severely. He hadn't truly recovered from it. And now Connor was getting ready to set sail.

The house would be empty.

Connor's frown deepened. That could not be allowed.

"Hello, Connor," Achilles greeted, easing himself up to sitting on a mountain of pillows. "Your sadness won't sustain me. Tell me of your latest exploits. How is the war?"

"Lafayette is chasing Cornwallis across Virginia, harassing his flanks and slowly bleeding his army dry. There will likely be a confrontation at Yorktown, but I suspect Washington and his French allies will soon join Lafayette and corner Cornwallis. The British keep fleeing. This country might soon be free."

Achilles, though his face was never soft, seemed to lighten. "Then you have won. The land and your people are safe." Connor couldn't stop the glance to the ceiling and sitting further back in his chair, anxiety of _Lee_ welling up. Achilles narrowed his eyes. "Yet you seem troubled..."

"_Charles Lee_ is not at his plantation and word has reached me that he hides in Fort George in New York."

The Old Man frowned, glancing down to his sheets, then looked up. "So long as he lives," he rasped, "all are in danger. The same is true for your father." He looked down to the sheets again. "When you first came to me twelve years ago, you understood what had to be done. Swore you'd see it through." Achilles's strength seemed to leave him as he sank further back into the pillows, looking up to the ceiling. "If not for the Brotherhood, then for your people, and all those threatened by the Templars. That goal should never change."

"But," Connor leaned forward, arms and hands open, anxiety flickering across his face, "with _Lee_ gone, my father might..."

Achilles weakly reached out and grabbed Connor's hand, looking down to the clasped limbs. "Listen to me," he said so softly it might have been a whisper. "You have not come this far to throw it all away over misplaced sentiment. Both men must die. Lee _and_ your father."

Connor grimaced. "Ach..." his throat closed. "Achilles."

But the Old Man had let go and became the firm old curmudgeon again. "There is nothing more to discuss." The he coughed again and sank back under his sheets, looking worn out and exhausted.

It was a clear dismissal, and Connor followed it, stepping out and feeling vaguely hurt. The Old Man was _right_. _Lee_ had to die. On some level, he could see and acknowledge that his father had to die. But Connor didn't _want_ to kill his _raké:ni_. He still wanted to try and understand the man and see what his mother might have. His father may be manipulative and untrustworthy, but to kill him? Connor wasn't certain he could.

But Achilles... Sorrow swelled in Connor at just how sick the Old Man was, and how weak. He had always been such a pillar of strength, even leaning on his cane, Connor could not reconcile his memories of Achilles with the weak, coughing man he'd just left. And being away, as usual, Connor was uncertain for how long. Jacob wouldn't be here. So Connor needed to make other arrangements.

He saddled his black mare and rode down to town.

"Connor!" came a call from the shore of the river as he passed over the bridge. Glancing down, Connor saw it was Diana and Catherine at the water's edge, doing laundry. "You're inna rush!"

Actually, that might work. Connor waved and rode across and then down to where the two Scotswomen were working.

"Good afternoon," he greeted them. "I am in need of help."

"'Course," Diana said, already standing. "You've done so much for us, 'course we'll help you."

Dismounting he turned, a grateful smile on his face. "I am preparing to travel once more," he explained. "But that will leave Achilles all alone in the manor."

"Oh, we cannae be having that," Catherine said, pushing her gray hair back under her bonnet. "We'll invite him down for a pint. We've not seen him down at the Mile's End in several months now."

Pain welled up in Connor and flashed across his face. No one knew. Achilles, who interviewed everyone who lived in town, who took care of matters when Connor was out traveling, Achilles the very foundation of the town, was ill and no one knew. Had Connor been so obsessed with tracking down _Lee_ he hadn't even noticed? When had Lyle last visited to check up on the Old Man?

"Achilles... He is not doing well," Connor said softly, vision blurring as he realized a large mistake he'd been making for _months_. "It is why I have not often left the manor. I have been caring for him as best I can. But..."

But he needed to leave.

Diana reached out and gently put a hand to Connor's arm. He pulled away, never comfortable with others touching him, and gave a soft apology.

"Connor," Diana said softly. "We understand. Truly." She turned to Catherine. "Can you take care of all this?"

"'Course," the older woman said, just as gently. "Go on, dearie."

"Bring me up to the manor, Connor," Diana said. "I'll be looking after him."

"I... Thank you."

He showed Diana around, keeping the root cellar closed, pointed out the honey for the tea and explaining a lot of what he did.

"He has good days and bad days," he explained, putting away the herbs he'd been showing her. "I am certain that he has time left, but I do not know how much. I do not know how many more winters he can stand."

"Din nae worry, Connor," Diana said, already looking through the kitchen. "He won't be alone and he'll still be here when you come back. I'll make sure of it."

Achilles himself didn't care for the situation.

"I am _not_ some invalid," he growled, attempting to muster the strength to stand, hands wrapped tightly around his cane. It took two tries to get the momentum to stand, and then he was hobbling forward in a full fury. "I don't need some damned nursemaid looking after me day-in and day-out, I'm just _fine_."

Diana took it all in stride. "Oh, I know," she replied completely calm as she bustled about the kitchen. "You're just like my father, stubborn as a mule with a kick to match. But let me tell _you_ something. I've been kicked by a mule and kept standing, and my father tried to shoo me away and I never left his side. Keep shouting, I'll still be here."

Connor's attempts to talk to Achilles was met with blistering scorn, which hurt more than Connor wanted to admit, and Diana finally chased him out of the house, saying she'd have a hearty dinner ready for when he got back.

Taking the hint, Connor headed down into town to get a few more items before he set sail.

The following morning, Diana had breakfast ready when Connor came down, which he was surprised for.

"I've seen you and your morning runs," she said, setting a plate down in front of him. "I thought I'd best get up early to see you got a proper send off."

"I... you have my thanks once again."

She waved it off. "Think nothing of it. Now eat up. I'll be heading back to town and getting a few things."

Connor ate quietly, his things already by the back door to grab on his way out. He was setting out to get _Lee_ so he needed to rest in stillness while he could. Once he entered battle, there would be little time to take a moment such as this.

After cleaning his dishes and returning them to their proper places, he left the kitchen and walked across the hall, knocking on Achilles's doorframe. By his bed was a tray of breakfast, half eaten, and the Old Man was sitting up in bed reading one of the newssheets from Hartford.

"Achilles... I..."

"You will kill Charles Lee," the Old Man said softly, not looking up from his paper. "And, in time, you will kill Haytham Kenway. Of that, I am certain."

Connor wasn't. He wasn't certain of that in the slightest.

"We'll play some fanorona when you get back. We'll see how you've learned to chain your moves and if anything has sunk into that thick skull of yours."

Connor gave a soft chuckle. "I will beat you yet, Old Man."

"I doubt it."

There wasn't really anything else Connor could say. So he bowed his head, offered respect to this master _hirokoa_, the _roiá:ner_ of the Assassins, and left, grabbing his things and heading down to the _Aquila_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> blah. This chapter is really kind of blah. The Benedict Arnold DLC was wildly inaccurate for the sake of gameplay and so, as always, we stuck to history as we could. It's interesting to us that Connor and Washington have both broken so badly, but still respect each other deeply. We sometimes get the feeling that doesn't happen anymore, that people break and burn all their bridges and throw vitriol at every opportunity. Connor can no longer trust Washington, can no longer like him, but he still respects Washington and supports The Cause; and Washington can't apologize for the decisions he's made, but he understands the cost of them deeply, and feels regret for the outcome he didn't want to happen. It's... not fun but interesting watching them interact, especially after all their previous scenes.
> 
> And Tallmadge; remember him? He wasn't just a one-off plot device to get Connor to New York, he has a small mountain of accomplishments under his belt, this being one of them.
> 
> Also, Ellen and Prudence traders for the win. They're such a great pair.
> 
> Next chapter: Tears. Tears everywhere. Tissue boxes are mandatory.
> 
> Recommended playlist: from the AC3 soundtrack: A Bitter Truth, Connor's Life, Homestead, Farewell. Also: Linkin Park's My December, Evenescance's My Immortal, Josh Groban's To Where You Are, and... really any song that deals with grief and lost loved ones.


	29. Death of a Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter broke all three of our betas. If there are spelling/grammar mistakes, we're sorry in advance.

It was the middle of August when Connor arrived in Virginia, not far from Yorktown, but far enough to not be noticed. It did not take much riding and discreet questions to start learning how things stood. Cornwallis and his men were solidly entrenched in Yorktown and attempting to build fortifications to protect any British ships at Hampton Roads. Lafayette and his men were at Malvern Hill, artillery overlooking the town. While Lafayette had good ground, he did not have enough men to take Yorktown back from Cornwallis. Instead he kept his canon aimed and kept Cornwallis trapped in the city.

Connor easily slipped into the American camp and found Lafayette at his headquarters, pouring over maps.

"Marquis," Connor greeted.

"_Oui_," Lafayette muttered, eyes still intent on the map. "How can I-" Looking up the young Frenchman smiled. "Connor! I am glad zhat you have come!"

Connor gave a solemn nod. "I as well. I am seeking French naval ships for something I need done."

"_Bien sûr_," Lafayette replied. "Zhe Comte de Grasse should be here soon. I will certainly beg his assistance for you. You have done much for us, it is zhe least I can do."

"I have not done much."

"You have but you will never admit it." Lafayette gestured and walked toward door. "Come, I will show you zhe grounds. I would like your t'oughts on placement of artillery and how to best intimidate zhe good _Général_ Cornwallis to stay put with his two ships."

It was ten days later, on August thirtieth, that the French fleet finally arrived. Twenty-eight ships, all flying the French flag, eased into the bay, essentially blocking the two British ships already there and hemming Cornwallis in further. With Lafayette on one side and the French fleet on the other, the British were well and truly trapped. But Lafayette didn't have the strength to hold against an all-out British attack. Which is why the French troops that disembarked from the French fleet helped reinforce his position. Word came that Washington and Rochambeau were coming, but were still weeks away as they had to travel over land from Washington's position on the Hudson River, north of New York City.

Connor kept to himself, using his spyglass to scout out Cornwallis's positions, mapping out what he could for Lafayette and riding as close to town as he dared, taking notes on his map and where troop placements were or likely were. He spent a few days like this, giving Lafayette time to talk to de Grasse.

One evening, Lafayette found Connor by a campfire. Connor was sipping some hot chocolate, wishing he could go to the river for a bath in the sweltering evening. The start of September in Virginia felt more like late July back in Rockport. The night remained warm and sticky as the sounds of insects started to swell and swarm to any bare flesh they could eat.

"_Bonsoir_, Connor," the young Frenchman greeted.

"Good evening," he replied, looking out to all the ships that blocked the bay.

"The Comte de Grasse said yes," Lafayette said without preamble. "You need only join his fleet in zhe Chesapeake and zhey will serve as required."

"My thanks."

They stood in silence for a moment, staring out to the bay and the oncoming darkness, the sun sinking behind them.

"Connor, I must ask, what do you intend?"

Connor offered a grim smile, still staring at the York River and the actual Bay. "_Charles Lee_ may have been dismissed, but it does not mean we are safe from him." He glanced to his friend. "You saw what he did to discredit and undermine. He will continue to do so."

"But zhe Commander..."

Connor closed his eyes and turned back to the water. Lafayette didn't understand the natives of America, since he had not had much interaction with them. Many in Europe didn't even realize just _how many_ natives there were across the colonies and beyond. It was too far away, too abstract, to comprehend. So Connor would not hold Lafayette's ignorance against him. But Lafayette wouldn't see the Commander as the flawed man he was. He could not see how bad his people were suffering. That was a conversation for another time.

"The Commander," he did _not_ growl with the word, "underestimates the threat and no more time can be wasted trying to convince him otherwise." Connor had wasted enough words with Washington. He would waste no more. "I must do this on my own."

"But zhen... why do you need ships? Lee is at his plantation, _non_?"

"No," Connor replied. "Word has reached me that he hides in New York, at Fort George. I have asked for confirmation and it has been given. _Lee_ is in Fort George. I will need French ships for what I must do."

"Do what, _exactement_?"

"Kill _Charles Lee_."

Lafayette's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"He hides within Fort George," Connor continued, staring out to the ever darkening sky, "which is itself, surrounded by a militarized district. Clinton keeps his men safe and secluded there, so he does not have to fix the rotting wound left by the Fire. I cannot hope to infiltrate it directly, so I will go under instead."

"_Incroyable_."

"There are tunnels leading to the fort, but they have been filled in. They are being unearthed as we speak."

"And zhe ships?"

"When signaled," Connor gave a cold grin, "they will bombard the fort."

Lafayette nodded. "Breaching its walls and creating a distraction. I see."

"In the chaos, I will slip inside, find _Charles Lee_, and silence him forever."

"I understand, Connor," Lafayette said. "I will assist in any way zhat I can."

Connor's smile turned genuine, as he turned and sipped his hot chocolate again. "You already have," he said softly. "You have provided me with de Grasse. The rest, I can manage. You will be busy here once Washington arrives."

"_Pas de doute_."

Admiral de Grasse scowled as he entered the room, staring at Connor almost down his nose. "_Merde_," he muttered.

Connor remained still, not letting his irritation at the once over the Admiral was giving him show. Like the British, the Frenchman had the arrogance of nobility about him, like he was somehow above Connor, but it was not as blatant as other's Connor had met over the years.

"Lafayette promised me a captain wizhout peer," the Admiral growled, his eyes narrowed. "Instead I find myself greeted by a boy in costume. Do you even have a ship, boy?"

Connor let out a long slow breath. "My ship is swift and powerful as a puma on the prowl," he replied calmly, standing tall and firm and allowing his own height to let him look down his nose to the shorter man. "I am to assist you, Admiral. Where will you need me?"

"Assist? I very much doubt zhis." The Admiral continued to frown, then shrugged. "I will help if you help. Zhat should be simple enough."

"And the ships I require?" Connor asked evenly.

"Zhey are yours," de Grasse narrowed his eyes, "if we survive this."

He nodded. "And what would you have me do?"

"For now, stay with zhe fleet. After zhat, we'll see."

Connor nodded. Facing those who judged on appearance alone was always exhausting and often fruitless, as those who were so prejudiced rarely changed their opinion.

Lafayette came in after de Grasse stalked away from headquarters. "Would zhat more could see men as zhey are," he said softly. "Since coming here I have learned much of zhis American spirit. Of how it matters not who one's fazher is, but who zhe man is. It takes much adjustment to see men as zhey are, not as how we are told zhey are."

"It is only through our actions that we should be judged," Connor replied. "For those like me, we must work twice as hard to prove ourselves. I can only hope that what I do will overtake what the Admiral thinks of me."

"I am certain it will."

Connor stayed on the _Aquila_ after that. Word came that Washington and Rochambeau had marched through Philadelphia, so it would still be about a week and a half before they arrived, if the weather held. He spent a lot of time up in the crow's nest, looking out from his spyglass, observing the York River, and the Bay beyond it. If he was to assist de Grasse, he needed to watch, and be alert.

It was the morning of the fifth of September, Connor was in the cabin with Faulkner, discussing various things, when one of the Clutterbuck's voices bellowed out across the deck.

"Ships ahoy! British!" Bells began ringing and everyone hurried on deck. Connor already was pulling out his spyglass, looking out to the Chesapeake.

"A fleet," he said, handing his glass to Faulkner.

Faulkner offered some colorful rhetoric on the subject. It was only 9:30 in the morning, and it was time to get to work.

Bells were being rung and soon picked up by the French ships all around them. Orders were quickly issued and sailors who had gone ashore came running back to their ships to start getting ready. But Connor and the French fleet were facing a problem. If they were to engage the British past Cape Henry, they were going to have to sail against the tide and the wind was hardly in their favor.

But that wasn't what was bothering Connor.

"Mr. Faulkner, what are the British doing?" he asked, looking out his spyglass an hour after the British had been spotted. "We aren't ready, won't be ready till noon tide, all the British would need to do would be to sail in and fire on us."

"No, he's a traditionalist, whoever commands that fleet," Faulkner replied, looking out his own spyglass. "He's getting all his ships in line for a standard fight. He probably hasn't even thought of breaking with tradition and just firing on us."

"That is good for us, but..."

"It shows limits of thinking," Faulkner agreed. "Our way is to teach and learn and try something new. His way is to follow what's always been done."

After another hour, at 11:30, the French finally cut anchor and they started to sail out with the noon tide. Signals from de Grasse were passed from ship to ship, and soon the fleet was making its own line to face the British line.

"Oh, that de Grasse isn't half bad," Faulkner smiled as orders were signaled. "He's not doing the traditional order. He wants it by speed."

"And we are the fastest ship in this fleet, are we not?" Connor asked matter-of-factly.

"That we are."

A few French ships detached, to blockade both the York and the James River, and, to Connor's surprise, the _Aquila_ actually wasn't the first ship out to the bay, but the _Auguste_. By 1:00, the two fleets were in line, but not in good form for battle. They still needed to avoid the shoals near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, and get closer so that they could actually fire.

Connor stood on the forecastle, practicing stillness on the rocking boat and reminding himself why he preferred to fight on land rather than sea. The British appeared to have been ordered to wear, a formation switching their directions to the opposite of what they had been doing to line up better for the fight and the French were still advancing east, drawing the British out to open waters away from Yorktown. First sightings had been over four hours previous, and _still_ they had yet to engage. Everything depended on the wind, the tides, almost everything was out of a captain's control. Connor preferred to be on land, where he had infinitely more options on what to do and did not have to wait this long unless he _wished_ to. So he practiced stillness to remind himself that there were always times when things would be beyond his control, times when his anxiety was insurmountable, and that he could be frozen on land just as he was frozen here at sea.

"We're in good straights," Faulkner said, pulling away from his spyglass and rubbing his eyes briefly. "Winds in our favor. We'll be able to open our lower gun ports. The British will need to keep them closed or take on water."

"And we have more ships. I count nineteen British. We have twenty-four."

"We also seem to be in better repair," Faulkner agreed. "I don't know what the British have been facing on the seas, but our fleet is far less damaged."

"Numbers are not all that is needed to win a battle, Mr. Faulkner," Connor replied quietly. "We cannot underestimate the British." After all, Connor had faced large odds and disadvantages before, yet he'd come out victorious.

Faulkner gave a cold smile. "Ah, but we're with the _French_."

Connor raised a brow. "What does that mean?"

"French have a particular method of using at times like this. They aim at masts and rigging."

Then Connor smiled. Even if the British did more damage to gun ports, if the French were taking out masts and rigging, more British would end up out of battle, drifting away, because they couldn't _move_. It was like aiming for the legs instead of the teeth. Cut maneuverability first, then remove the threat.

"Perhaps we shall win."

Finally, at 4:00, with both lines not quite parallel and over six hours after first sighting each other, the British opened fire on the _Marseillais_, the first French ship that proved to be slightly faster than the _Aquila_ and the engagement started. Canons roared all along the van and back to the center of the line. The rear still weren't close enough to engage and at a poor angle for it. It would be hours before they could.

"_Fire_!" Faulkner roared, and their broadside cut through the bow of the oncoming British, who only had their fore-guns to aim with, leaving the British at a distinct disadvantage. The lines kept closing in on each other, and within a half hour, two ships from the head of the British line fell out of line because the rigging was so damaged.

Of course, the French van was also damaged, signals showing that Captain de Boades of the _Réfléchi_ had been killed in the opening broadside, and the French were undermanned in several ships, making quick repairs difficult to manage in all the shelling. Four ships of the van, including the _Aquila_ seemed to be engaged with almost twice the number of British all at once and in close quarters. Fire kept being traded back and forth, raking ships on all sides.

"Sir!" David Clutterbuck shouted. "The _Diadème_ is in trouble!"

"Full sail! Catch that wind!"

Both the _Aquila_ and the _Saint-Esprit_ raced to help the _Diadème_, and within ten minutes, both had turned and were firing on the ships that so beleaguered the overwhelmed French ship. The _Diadème_ was eventually able to fall back, still able to fire, but not so close to the action.

It was an hour after the fighting had _finally_ started, and the wind was shifting. Orders came up from de Grasse, signaling that the van was to sail further out so that the center, which had faced less fire and was fresher, could come forward and crush the British van.

"Is he _crazy_?" Thomas Clutterbuck demanded. "We're in _musket_ range! If we disengage now, we'll be leaving our sterns wide open for British canon!"

"We'll pull away as we can!" Faulkner shouted back. "For now, keep it _hot_!"

It took time, but slowly, carefully, the French van started to pull away. The British didn't seem to wish pursuit and simply fired long distance.

"Ha!" David Clutterbuck laughed. "They just want to say they fought! Cowards, the lot of them!"

The centers of the lines engaged, but from Connor's view in the crow's nest, it did not appear as fraught or damaging as the fight between the two vans had been. It also did not last as long. Nightfall was almost upon them and all firing eventually ceased as both fleets kept sailing away from the bay. Faulkner was already bellowing orders for repairs, assessment of damages, and a long night of work ahead of them to prepare for the following day.

Connor headed below deck to get something to eat and to get some sleep while he could. Unless the British disappeared overnight, the battle would likely continue in the morning.

The following day, the British and the French faced each other over the open waters, neither side starting an engagement.

"Looks like he needs more time to repair," Faulkner said, lowering his spyglass. "I won't say no to some more time to fix ourselves up. Get some rest for the men."

"I believe that five of the British ships are immobile," Connor observed.

"Told you the French had an advantage in this."

For the next few days it was all maneuvering. The French might get an advantage of wind, forcing the British further and further away from Yorktown, but the wind never held long enough to take proper advantage to reengage.

"Those British must be pissing themselves," Faulkner observed over dinner one night. "More damage than us. Herod all handsaws, they must be wondering what to do."

"We are damaged as well," Connor replied quietly. "We may be better off, but an injured bear is more dangerous than a ready one."

"True, but unless the wind suddenly starts favoring the British, I think we've won this."

On the tenth of September, Connor and the French woke up to find the British gone.

"They've retreated," Faulkner smiled. "Thought they would."

"Then we must see Admiral de Grasse."

Connor met with the Admiral aboard the _Ville de Paris_, the flagship of the fleet, sitting down with him to a light lunch.

"I watched you during zhat fight," de Grasse said, sipping his wine. "Skilled sailing, skilled aim, and an _incroyable_ read of the wind. Perhaps Lafayette did not exaggerate when he spoke of your abilities."

Connor only took the barest sips of the wine, never having cared for alcohol. Perhaps he had also misjudged this Admiral. It seemed deeds could make the man think, and his cunning during the battle and willingness to look outside of traditions, even if only slightly, had prevailed. Connor doubted de Grasse could ever be completely shaken from judging on appearances, but at least he kept a somewhat open mind.

"As promised, my ships are yours to command," de Grasse cut a thick slice of bread. "What do you require?"

Connor set down his glass. "Five of your damaged ships must enter New York's harbor, flying British flags."

Pausing, de Grasse looked to Connor as if seeing him for the first time. He blinked, completely still and trying not to let shock show across his face. "_Attendez_! I zhought you might need some pirates killed or goods transported... And instead you ask for us to, _quoi_, shell New York?"

Connor leaned back, clasping his hands. "No. Of course not."

"Ah..." de Grasse let out a sound of relief.

"Only part of it," Connor continued.

Once more stiff, de Grasse narrowed his eyes at Connor, tilting his head. "_Expliquez,_"

Connor was still but a moment to take a breath. "I mean to infiltrate Fort George. But it is too well-guarded. Cannon fire will breach its walls and scatter its guards."

The Admiral nodded. "And a ship zhat flies zhe French flag could never get near it..."

Connor nodded. "You understand, then?"

De Grasse gave a small hmph. "Not at all." He took another, more substantial, sip of his wine. "But a promise is a promise. Even when made to a _lunatique_."

"Then shall we go over some plans."

"_Oui_. After we have enjoyed zhe finest lunch to be found out on the seas."

* * *

New York City.

The city that tortured him, tried to hang him. The city that left damage to rot, disease to fester. The city that poisoned its people, that left orphans and homeless to fend for themselves. The stronghold of the British and the Tories, the home of Haytham Kenway.

And the hiding place of _Charles Lee_.

New York had a bedlam of memories and emotions attached to Ratonhnhaké:ton, very few of them good. The _Aquila_ docked, British flag whipping in the wind, and he and Faulkner disembarked. De Grasse knew it would be at least a day before the native would give the signal, and was still further south, out of sight for now, giving the _Hirokoa_ time to gather their forces. Dobby's bureau was deep in the city, nearly its center, and was filled with orphans and beggars and other children that had made her information network. Connor and Faulkner were welcomed by Joseph and Jacob, and inside everyone else had gathered, even Clipper and Red Feather from the deep south of Virginia. Anne and William set the table, Duncan and Stephane having a debate as they waited for everyone to settle.

"Sometimes I worry," Stephane was saying. "That these Patriots - for all their talk of liberty and equality - will fall back into the old ways."

"It'll depend greatly on who's chosen to lead them. A man o' humble means - who has worked to earn his place... I think a man like that is less likely to dream of thrones."

Stephane shook his head. "All men dream of thrones. It is in our nature."

Duncan sipped his rum. "Then what would you do?" he asked.

"Ensure their leader is sterile," Stephane answered. "Without an heir, the threat of succession is ended - and might be left to the people once more."

"Connor!" Jamie said. "The tunnel will take you into the military district. It exits into a well, right in the middle of one of the squares; makes for a bad way in."

"I have a plan for that," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, taking the maps he and de Grasse and Faulkner had devised. He explained the plan slowly. "Our primary concern is distraction. Admiral de Grasse will provide it by taking his injured ships into the harbor. There will be five volleys, roughly twenty minutes apart. It will confuse the British troops stationed in the fort and pull all of their guards out of the district itself. It will also confuse _Lee_," the name was a curse on his lips, his face as bitter as his voice, "If his information is anything like ours he won't understand why the Americans are attacking here, or if he thinks like Clinton then he will assume the attack has begun. Our greatest concern is that we do not know which building actually houses the Templar stronghold. Dobby, were you able to get anyone in?"

"Snuck a few o' the kids in as paper boys," she said, pulling out her own map. "They didn't find anything suspicious, but that's not a surprise. One o' the girls saw a lot of people here, in the northwest corner, by the batteries, but that could be anythin'. Wasn't about to have the kids mention the 'Father o' Understandin' to look for a reaction."

"Nor would we expect you," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We will have to spread out. There are ten of us including myself, and in pairs we can cover a lot of ground."

"Eleven," Red Feather said after a pause. His finger bobbed up and down, counting again. "There are eleven of us."

"Yes," the master assassin said, "but you will not be in the infiltration. I have another assignment for you: you need to climb the signal tower and light the signal for Admiral de Grasse to sail in and begin his assault."

The child nodded, absorbing his role with an intense look on his face.

"We are..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say. "We are all of us Assassins, _Hirokoa_. We must live by the tenets that we have been taught: we must stay our blade from everyone in the fort except of _Charles Lee_. We must blend in with the crowds that will be running from the diversion. And we must keep ourselves alive at all costs. Even the cost of _Lee_. This mission is dangerous: we will be running in cannon fire, we will be fighting Templars who would eat us, we will be facing British troops in staggering numbers. And even with our precautions, we may fail. This is not a good plan. It is rash and desperate. If... If there are any who are not inclined to this, if there are any who feel this is doomed to failure, I... I release you. You may leave now and fear no reprisal. The Old Man will see you placed somewhere hidden, away from the Templars, that you might live peacefully. I will leave you to confer amongst yourselves."

"No," Anne said, her eyes bright and watery. "You gave me purpose after everything that's happened in my life. I'll not leave you when I have the chance to return the favor."

"You showed me how to harness my passion and wield it like a blade," Stephane said.

"Ye listened to me when no one else would," Dobby said.

"You gave me a place to furnish my anger," Joseph said, eyes bright against his dark skin.

"You showed me a world a might bigger than I could imagine," Clipper said.

"You taught me that corruption, ve could end it," said Jacob.

"You showed me how to use words again," William said, "Words in the right context, at the right time."

"Ye reminded me o' me uncle," Duncan said, "and the fierce admiration I had for that man."

"You made me remember how to use my hands again, when I thought I'd lost them," Jamie said.

"You gave me heritage," Red Feather said.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt warmth in his chest, soft and tight at the same time. His face burned, and he was still, uncertain how to reply. He blinked several times, ears ringing. At last he said. "You have all given me strength..." it was the best he could said, his voice failing him.

They rested as much as they could before the sun set. Connor had no such luck, sat on the roof of the bureau, tilting his head to see between alleys and buildings to spy the Fort, his mind already several hours ahead, wondering what he would find. The where and when did not matter, not even the how, to a certain extent. He wanted to kill _Lee_ personally, to be sure, but with work he could allow himself to picture one of the others doing so, and he could make himself be fine with that. _Lee_ had destroyed his village, killed his mother, had him tortured and hung, tried to eat his village a second time, turned Kanen'tó:kon against him, tried to undermine Washington. So much of what he had been done was personal. He was contemptuous, arrogant, dismissive, and above all _evil._ No one would be safe if he lived, he had proven he would eat anything that got in his way. The spawn of Hahgwehdaetgah, the evil twin Flint, _Atenenyarhu_ Stone Coat that brought winter. He spawned _Kanontsistóntie_, Flying Heads with his vicious murders, unleashing whirlwinds of damage in every unholy act he performed. By the end of the night it would be over, and the land, the Americans, and his people would be safe.

"_Raktsí_..." Red Feather climbed up, hair sleep-tousled. The tribeless native tried to work his mouth around the word that Ratonhnhaké:ton had taught him, one that Red Feather had chosen to call the _Hirokoa_ when they were alone: Older brother.

"_Hén?_"

Red Feather did not know enough words to keep using Ratonhnhaké:ton's native language, and he switched back to English. "Charles Lee. He is the last one, yes?"

"He is the most important one," Connor corrected. "There are others, many others. Some we know and some we do not, but _Lee_ is the most important one. When he is gone, it will be over." Well, not _over_, his father was still to be dealt with, but if _Lee_ was killed then Haytham would have no one else to turn to, all the other underlings were just that: underlings, not worthy of the trust Haytham so rarely gave out. It would only be then, when _Lee _was dead, that Haytham Kenway would be forced to deal with his son honestly, and perhaps then they could talk. Truly talk, without the philosophical derailment. Perhaps then, at last, he could know his _raké:ni_. Perhaps there would be peace.

"Then..." Red Feather paused, playing with his sleeve. "Then what do we do? After we win?"

A long pause drew out, the question throwing Ratonhnhaké:ton. After it was all over... what then? He did not know; over half of his life had been dedicated to killing _Lee_, he had not even considered what would come after, what he would do when his work was done. He would go back to the village of course, secure in its safety but... Kanen'tó:kon... He was not sure he could go back with the blood on his hands. He was not sure he had the right to return to a quiet life. Regret, as Achilles had predicted, filled his heart: regret over what he had done, what he had not done, the actions he took and the ones he was forced to take. He was not sure he deserved happiness after all the death.

The sun had finally set however, and there was no more time to think. He and Red Feather moved back into the bureau and down into the tunnels were everyone else was waiting. They navigated the underground labyrinth on silent feet, no one making a sound aside from the occasional shift of clothing. His oldest recruits, Duncan, Stephane, even young Clipper, had the set shoulders of combat veterans. Even Red Feather held himself differently, back straight and eyes determined. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt pride in his compatriots, and calm instead of anxiety filled his chest, and he said nothing as Red Feather disappeared into a different tunnel to light the signal fire. It was a waiting game now, and they all quickened their pace to get to the entrance in the district.

All of the maps were memorized, all the paths and possible locations, the pairs were already drifting together, and in the full dark of the tunnels only Ratonhnhaké:ton moved with a confident step, the eagle in his mind gifted to him by Iottsitíson sharpening his eyes and his senses. They arrived at the base of the well. It was a hunter's moon, the pale white light bright to their dilated eyes, and all that was left to do was wait. Everyone was still; Duncan with his hands clasped praying, Joseph invisible in the shadows, Jamie playing idly with his beard. William pulled out a pocket watch and wound it, tilting it carefully into the light and checking the time.

"Nine o'clock," he murmured.

The wait continued, minutes dragging by at a snail's pace, time stretching in the darkness to absurd lengths. What if something went wrong? What if Red Feather was caught, or something went wrong with the signal fire? What if de Grasse failed? What if information had leaked to _Lee_? But even so Ratonhnhaké:ton was still, his chest empty and his mind clear. It would either work or it would not. If it did, _Charles Lee_ would be dead by dawn and the world would be safe. If not, they would grieve their losses and try again. The plan had progressed too far to be riddled with doubts, and Ratonhnhaké:ton convinced himself that he had none.

Everyone was shifting in the tunnel, anxious to get started. Waiting was the most difficult task for any _Hirokoa_ to master, as Ratonhnhaké:ton knew from personal experience. But it was a skill that was often the most rewarded, and when they heard the distant sounds of thunder, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not think it was _Hinon_ come to bless them, but instead recognized what it was, and seconds later there was a stiff rumble through the tunnels, followed by the sounds of reaction: windows opening, candles being lit, people coming out to see what had happened.

"First shelling," Jamie said. "Twenty minutes until the next."

They waited until the sounds had died down, footsteps moving around above them, until they were certain no one was in the square. Ratonhnhaké:ton climbed out first, silent as a predator, eagle eyes looking everywhere as the others climbed out.

"_Tiatén:ro_," he said softly. "You and I are friends." It was the best he could offer, the pressure of their mission taking over, and everyone shared a hardened nod before splitting off into their pairs. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Clipper moved immediately to the roofs; they had the best eyesight of the group and shifted to high ground. The others took branching paths, and soon everything was shadow and hints of movement, even his newest recruits disappearing into the streets as they began their search for the Templar stronghold.

The pair crested the roof of a warehouse, wide and flat with an excellent vantage of most of the streets. If _Lee_ was in the actual Fort that would be a problem, and as the disgruntled former Patriot general that was a distinct possibility – but highly unlikely if the Templars truly wanted this country's independence to seize it for their own. No, he had to be in the town.

From above he could just make out Stephane and Anne, posing as confused civilians, asking what was going on.

Another shelling rocked the district. Second volley, twenty minutes had passed, twenty minutes until the next. The crowds panicked again, realizing this was more than a rogue accident of some kind, and the panic started to build. Smoke rose from the Fort, even this far away Ratonhnhaké:ton's senses could pick up commotion over there, orders and confusion. Good, the more who were confused the better. His eyes were everywhere, moving around the edge of the roof in deliberate circles, but he heard no shriek of his eagle. Clipper moved on one roof and Ratonhnhaké:ton another, the two splitting up to cover more ground. Dobby and Joseph were spotted climbing the side of a building, moving into an open window, and further down the street was Duncan and Jamie, a mass of people behind them as they started a riot. _Excellent_. More confusion.

He moved to another roof, eyes darting left and right, trying to find _Charles Lee_. The sooner this was over the sooner his people would be safe. The third shelling bombarded the fort, brick and debris flying everywhere against the bright backdrop of black powder exploding. De Grasse had a lucky shot, but it was closer to the civilian area than Ratonhnhaké:ton liked. Also, they were now halfway through their assault: they only had forty minutes left before the last shelling, and then they were on borrowed time. This had to go quickly, _Charles Lee_ had to be giving orders by now, sending his Templars out somewhere, relocate, send couriers, something. He closed his eyes and prayed to Iottsitíson, begging her to give him just a touch more insight. This was his final battle, after this her quest would be over, would she not help him in his duty?

Jacob and William were dashing through the streets, leading a set of non-British guards on as Stephane and Anne snuck into the house they vacated. The distinct sound of a rifle filled the air, Clipper had found something. His was not the only shot, however. Gunfire started to spit out from all over the streets, partly from the riot partly from looters partly from confusion. Other people began to climb to the roofs, trying to find refuge. One gave a terrified shout when he came to Ratonhnhaké:ton's roof, but the young native offered an inoffensive shrug and offered the roof to him. He needed to perform his task, so he moved to a third rooftop, still searching, searching, _searching_.

_Where are you, Charles...?_

There, a hint of malice, the scent of arrogance. His eyes snapped to the left, and he ran full tilt over the roofs of the narrow block he was on, towards the sea wall and the massive oak stakes protecting the civilian half of the fort. There, in the shadows, a silhouette of a straight back.

A feral grin crossed his lips, anticipation filling him. His target was in sight, and at last he would fight the _atenenyarhu_ and rid the world of its evil. He savored the moment, judging his position. An air assassination would perhaps be best, he just needed to angle his fall and...

And that moment of inattention to his surroundings was all he needed. Rational people did not escape to roofs to run from danger, they escaped to the safety of their homes. The people on the roofs were not civilians, but Templars, and the one he had graciously given a roof to took aim and fired.

Pain exploded in his side, below his ribcage and he watched in confusion as blood exploded from his stomach. What...?

His legs gave out underneath him, and the pitched roof lead him down and down before he slid out over the edge and down two stories into a cart of rotten produce that did nothing to soften his fall. He lay there a moment, his side was on fire and he could comprehend little else, clutching his side and feeling the _sickening_ sensation of blood pooling in his hands. His breath came out in short, ragged bursts, every twitch of his muscles brought agony to his side that radiated outward, and it was everything he could do to think outside that pain. _Lee_. This was the work of _Lee_. In his cowardice he had tried to remove Ratonhnhaké:ton as coldly as he had killed his mother, by letting the destruction of the district hide his work. That thought burned as much, if not more, than the wound, and Ratonhnhaké:ton _would not let Lee win._

Grunting, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, and then by some miracle coordinated his body enough to get himself out of the cart. It took him long enough that he heard the fourth shelling. He was down to twenty minutes, in no condition to fight, and _Lee was right there in the shadows_. Growling, he shoved himself away from the cart and wavered on his feet until he was still. The silhouette was gone.

Rage.

"Where are you, Charles...?" he shouted.

"Gone."

It couldn't be...!

Ratonhnhaké:ton whipped around to see his _raké:ni_ running at him, almost upon him, and a fist raised to take his son right in the face. The young native could not make his body react fast enough, what should have been an easy dodge was instead a swift blow to his jaw that snapped his head to the side, followed by a kick to his side that sent a black powder _explosion_ in his wound, followed by an jab at the back of his neck. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nearly past the point of perception as he fell to the dirt. Haytham was here? _Haytham was here?_

It was a trick.

All of it.

_Lee_ disappearing from his plantation, rumors of him being in New York, it was all a ruse, bait to draw out Ratonhnhaké:ton that he had fallen for _beautifully_. _Haytham Kenway_ had planned this, had wanted this confrontation.

Rage overrode the pain, he gave out a guttural grunt as he surged to his knees and gave a viscous punch to the groin, giving him momentum to get up to his feet and following up with an uppercut and a hard right cross. Haytham blocked that and jabbed at his chest, just above the gunshot wound, but Ratonhnhaké:ton felt nothing, instead grabbing at Haytham's arm and twisting it around, pinning him in a lock. He twisted, feeling the wrappings of the stolen hidden blade, hoping to break the arm.

"Come now," Haytham grunted, arrogant even as he clearly felt pain, "you cannot hope to match me, Connor."

Ratonhnhaké:ton grunted, confused as to why the arm hadn't broke yet, the red haze lifting only enough for him to realize he was not strong enough, the bullet was still sapping at his strength. That would do no good, he had to remove the hidden blade from the equation, it was the one unknown he could not plan for: other weapons were clear to read, but the genius of the hidden blade was that it was not, a flick of the wrist impossible to discern in the heat of battle – let alone now when he was losing blood and strength by the second. His mind burned trying to solve the problem, his process slow and muddled.

"For all your skills," Haytham was saying, his tone insulting, goading, "you're still but a boy - with so much left to learn."

The red haze filled his mind again, and he shoved Haytham away, but not completely, holding on to the bracer as he extended his own hidden blade, a flick of the wrist twisting it into a reverse grip dagger and plunging it down – through the blade and the soft flesh and the bone underneath. Haytham gave an agonized shout of pain that did nothing to quell the berserk native as he struggled to stay standing. This was the _wrong person_, his senses told him, _this is the wrong person_. He could comprehend little else, a year of planning, a year of _healing_, and now that his goal was at last in sight it was ripped from him cruelly and savagely by the one man he did not wish to confront. Blood was roaring in his ears and he could barely perceive anything outside his rage.

"_Give me Lee!_"

Haytham's response was dismissive. "Impossible," he said simply. There was pain in his voice, enough that he almost didn't sound like himself, and the difference drew a little of the red haze back; Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked to realize he had managed to wound his _raké:ni_. How...?

"He is the promise of a better future," Haytham said, clutching his arm, wrapping a handkerchief around it awkwardly. "The sheep need a shepherd."

The man still thought _Lee_ was of value? Was he _mad_?

"He has been dismissed and censured," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. "He can do nothing for you now. He has been beaten at every turn, because he cannot hide his contempt from the world. His own arrogance has brought him down to almost nothing. How many duels has he fought because of his conduct towards Washington? How many people in the army even remember his name? He is useless, disgraced, known to everyone as _worthless_."

"A temporary setback," Haytham replied, his voice smooth again, the pain put away. "He will be restored."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. The berserk fury had faded now, rational thought was beginning to bleed back into his head. He was in poor condition to fight, once the adrenaline faded he would assuredly collapse, and he could not afford that. For now he had to fight another way. Except he did not want to fight his father. He never had; he realized that now. All of his excuses had been just that: excuses. Even as a child he had not wanted to lift the blade to his _raké:ni_, and his complicated knot of emotions around the man came from trying to bring up the resolve of doing so. He could not. All he ever wanted was to _know_ him. Even now, learning his father had performed this masterful trickery, he could not understand why they were fighting. "We have an opportunity here," he said, wanting the fighting to stop, wanting the _pain_ to stop. "To break the cycle, and end this ancient war. I know it."

To be as Skennenrahawi, the Great Peacemaker, to bring about a new Great Law of Peace, rid the cannibalism of the modern world. To be as Hiawatha the orator, who spread Skennenrahawi's Law. To be as Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, to teach the wisdom of the Creed to future generations. To be as Ezio Auditore da Firenze, to build a strong clan that can survive war. This was his chance, _their_ chance, to be those great Spirits, to bring peace to the world in many forms, to bring strong morals, guidance, solace to the world losing itself to the madness of war.

This was what he wanted of his _raké:ni_. This must have been part of the will of Iottsitíson. Ratonhnhaké:ton had to try. He offered his blood soaked hand.

"Let us be two rivers flowing together, let us strengthen the longhouse."

In response, Haytham's eyes were ice. "No. You _want_ to know it. You _want_ it to be true. You think yourself some mythical figure like the Christ, die for the sins of others, bring peace to the world, or the Goddess Athena and her precious olive branch. You _want_ all of those stories to be true, to make such a thing come _true_. Part of me once did as well. _But it is a dream, boy!_" he shouted, face twisted in something dark and painful. "Only _children_ believe in such fairy tales, only _children_ think they can achieve such heights. But reality _shatters_ those dreams, over and over! Reality tramples those dreams into the ground, burying the dreamers in nothing but betrayal and death and regret and vengeance. _Dream all you want, Connor_," he hissed, "But it is an impossible dream."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head in denial. "We are blood, you and I. You said it yourself: a son of an Assassin raised by a Templar, a son of a Templar raised as an Assassin. There is meaning there, there is meaning that we lost our parents so young, there _has_ to be! Think of what we have done separately, imagine what we could do _together_! Please…"

"No, son," Haytham said. Any emotion was cut off now, any feelings that might have been were shoved aside, all that was left was cold, calculated determination. "We are enemies. And one of us must die."

The Templar Grandmaster stalked forward in the moonlight, drawing his sword menacingly as Ratonhnhaké:ton felt strength seeping from him. His hidden blade was still clutched in his hand, the other holding his side, but he had no idea if he could fight. He took a hesitant step back. "You act as though you have some right to judge," Haytham said, cold and unfeeling. "To declare me and mine wrong for the world. And yet everything I've shown you - all I've said and done - should _clearly_ demonstrate otherwise. We did not harm your people. We did not support the Crown. We worked to see this land _united_ and at _peace_. Just as _you_ wished. Under our rule all will be equal. Do the Patriots promise the same?"

"They offer freedom," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "They offer the chance to choose their own path, and the ability to make the right choice for all people. Freedom that _you_ deny!"

In the moonlight Haytham rolled his eyes. "Which I've told you - time and time again - is dangerous! There will never be consensus, son, among those you have helped to ascend. They will all differ in their views of what it means to be free. The peace you so desperately seek _does not exist_."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Together they will forge something new - better than what came before. As will those after, and those after. It may not be perfect after the war, it may not be what either of us want, but it will be a step in the right direction. And future generations will look at the example this nation created and choose to follow it, and they will add to this notion of a free nation, a little at a time! And we will wait for it, wait for others to see what we see."

"Oh," Haytham replied in a bitter snort, "These men are united _now_ by a common cause. But when this battle is finished they will fall to fighting amongst themselves about how best to ensure control. Men do not gladly give up power they have, and no man on earth wishes to _share. _In time it will lead to war. You will see."

"The Patriot leaders do not seek control," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted. "There will be no monarch here. The people will have the power - as they should."

"The people _never_ have the power!" Haytham roared, emotion breaking out across every line of his body. "Only the illusion of it. And here's the real secret: they don't want it. The responsibility is too great to bear. It's why they're so quick to fall in line as soon as someone takes charge. They _want_ to be told what to do. They _yearn_ for it. Little wonder, that, since all mankind was _built_ to _serve_."

"So because we are inclined by nature to be controlled, who better than the Templars? It is a poor offer."

"_It is truth!_ Principle and practice are two very different beasts."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, dizzy and vision blurring. He had stalled for too long, he had not gained strength but lost it. "No, _Raké:ni_," he said, words slightly slurred. "You have given up - and would have us all do the same."

That was when the world exploded.

Twenty minutes had passed, and the... what number was it now?... the next volley from de Grasse erupted not on the fort but in the civilian district, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and Haytham, near the sea wall as they were, were thrown from their feet with the force of the shelling erupting around their feet. Everything went black, sound disappeared into a shrill whistle and all Ratonhnhaké:ton really understood was that everything was on fire, bone deep ache vying for attention across the pulsing burn of his chest and the overwhelming throb of his head and the hot tears on his cheeks. He could not get enough air into his lungs, it came in staggered gasps and blood filled his sense of smell and taste. A gurgled cough erupted even more pain from his chest when he did not think it possible to feel any more, and all he could do was lay there, letting his body master him for the moment.

Achilles... what would he do?

… Except he ran to his manor and lived in exile.

_Ista..._?

… She left the pain and returned to Kanatahséton.

Kanen'tó:kon...

… Only fought when the Templars had taken his bitterness and honed it to a weapon.

Ratonhnhaké:ton could not do those things. He could not run away, even to unconsciousness. He did not deserve the reprieve, not after everything he had done. He took another breath, fighting through the pain, opening his eyes, and seeing smoke drifting across the sky, blurring the full moon and hiding her stars. Get up. Get up, Ratonhnhaké:ton; get up and face your _raké:ni_.

With a grunt he swung himself to his side, and the pain was so great his vision whited out, and he gulped for air before he could see straight. Near him, only a foot away, was his father Haytham was flat on his back, legs dithering this way and that, the older man also struggling to stay conscious.

The crawl was agony. He could not understand why he was still conscious, he could see his shirt and coat and leggings soaked with the blood he had spilt, could see the trail he was leaving in the dirt. Every fist of dirt threatened to send him under, every wiggle and thrust a test of his will to stay breathing, to stay conscious, to make it to his father. He did not know how long it took him, he did not know if he was alive or dead, but still he pushed himself, getting closer and closer, until at last, he could reach out and put a bloody hand on the arm of his father.

"Surrender," he breathed through clenched teeth, "and I will spare you."

Haytham sat up slowly, heedless of the hand on his arm, casting it aside as he always did, hurting Ratonhnhaké:ton even in this. "Brave words from a man about to die," he answered. Blood was dripping down his forehead, tricorn had gone and silver hair askew. He held himself delicately, a sign of broken ribs, and one leg was at an unnatural angle.

"... You fare no better."

Haytham begged to differ, rolling and swinging his leg over Ratonhnhaké:ton's torso, his working hand grabbing at the hidden blade while the other clutched weakly at his neck. His neck his neck his neck his neck...! The pressure was not great, he could still breathe, and the young native fought to hold on to that fact, but his vision was pinholing, all he could see was the hateful face of his father, looking down on him in arrogant contempt and anger. This was the man who so savagely beat Benjamin Church, the creature that lived under the cultured London accent and suave charm and grace. It was ugly, inhuman, savage.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt fear.

"Even when your kind appears to triumph," the ugly thing said, "Still we rise again. And do you know why? It is because the Order is born of a _realization_. We require no creed. No indoctrination by desperate old men. All we need is that the world be as it is." His vision was fading, air was getting hard to come by, the other hand was on his neck, "And _this_ is why," there was pressure he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe hanged again hanged in hatred, "the Templars," strangled by demons six years old _Ista_ where is _Ista_ can't breathe going to die going to die _don't want to die!_ "will never be destroyed!"

_BREATHE_!

_DON'T WANT TO DIE_!

Hidden blade weapon still free air need air vision black choking dying pressure throat neck _thrust_ air! Finally air!

Ratonhnhaké:ton sucked in a greedy breath and coughed almost immediately, the pain in his chest unbearable but ultimately ignorable as he realized he could breathe again. Air never tasted so sweet, he would have sighed in relief had he not been so desperate for the smoky air filling his lungs, and he was certain he would get a long lecture from Dr. Lyle and Jamie but it didn't even matter he could breathe!

His vision finally cleared, and he saw Haytham still above him, hand at his neck, blood from...

_Iá_.

Oh, _iá_.

Haytham looked down at Ratonhnhaké:ton, as he always had. "Don't think I have any intention of caressing your cheek and saying I was wrong," he said, bitter to the last. "I will not weep and wonder what might have been. I'm sure you understand. Still," he added, as his eyes started to glass over, "I'm proud of you in a way. You have shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities." He looked down at Ratonhnhaké:ton again, and for the first time there was something almost soft in his eyes. Almost. "I should have killed you long ago."

He slumped to the side, off of Ratonhnhaké:ton, dead.

Emotion filled the young native, and he could say only one thing:

"_Ó:nen ki' wáhi Raké:ni._"

Goodbye, Father...

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, his mind fuzzy, his body in agony.

He awoke again later, cheeks flushed and hard to concentrate.

He awoke later still, and he remembered wondering why there was no strong hand at his shoulder. Where was Achilles?

Jamie was standing over him, dimly lit by candlelight. "Rest easy, Connor," he said softly. "We can handle it a while longer."

… What did that mean?

The next time he woke he felt stronger. He tried to take a breath and felt pain in his chest, not from anxiety but physical pain. A hand numbly went up and found thick bandages about the epicenter of the pain, and then it all came back in a rush: the shelling, the people on the roofs, and his father.

Haytham...

He felt...

"_That is what it means to be an Assassin, to carry that regret with you all the way to your grave... and the greatest regret of all will be when you finally kill your father, because Haytham Kenway is a man so intimately tied to you it will not hide that regret from you._"

Achilles... _I understand now..._

The true meaning of regret, the fullest of its weight. Kanen'tó:kon...

He drifted off again, but each time he woke he felt a little stronger, and in time Jamie deemed it safe to bring in the others. Red Feather became an overnight companion, clutching his _tiatén:ro_ and unwilling to be far from him for long. "It was close," was all he said.

Duncan, the de facto second, was more forthcoming. "Nearly lost ye there," he said. "Ye lost a lot of blood afore we found ye, had us all scared. Jamie tried to sew you up himself, but you know how his hands are, had to walk Anne through it, she nearly fainted about a half dozen times, but that's all in the past now. How're ye faring?"

Connor did not know how to answer. It must have shown on his face, because Duncan nodded and ran a hand through his thin red hair. "Thought as much when we saw who ye was lyin' with. I'm sorry, Connor, that ye had to go through that."

"And _Lee_?"

"Nowhere to be seen," Duncan replied, too respectful to dull the blow. "It was a trap from the get go, nearly lost a few of us along the way. Lil' Joe broke a leg, and Jamie says it'll be month afore Jacob can lift his arm, but we all got out. And," he added, reaching into his breast pocket. "We completed the objectives. Found the Templar stronghold and set it afire, but not afore looting it of every scrap of paper we could find. William's been locked up from the get go with me an' Jamie when he ain't tending ye trying to decode it. This though," he pulled out a leather bound book and set it on the nightstand. "Soon as I realized what it was I stopped reading it. It's yours. I'll let ye alone with it."

Duncan stood and gave a look to Red Feather, who regretfully pulled away and gave Ratonhnhaké:ton some space.

Tired, curious, uncertain, he opened the book.

_December 6, 1735_

_My name is Haytham E. Kenway. Two days ago I turned ten years old. That was also the day my father died._

Connor sucked in a breath, regretting the action instantly, and stared at the book Duncan had left him. A journal? _His father's journal_?

He read hungrily after that, unable to tear his eyes away from the pages, reading the young, simple sentences of a ten year old boy who suffered an attack the night of his birthday, of killing the man who killed his father, of funerals and social isolation and a man named Mr. Birch, engaged to his half-sister Jenny. He read about Jenny being kidnapped. He read about Haytham's training under Birch, the unending search for his sister. He read about a man named Braddock, and stealing an artifact from an Assassin that lead him to the Americas. He read in horror about his _ista_, Haytham saying it would be a challenging "conquest," read how his mother had made an impression on him that he looked back on fondly, even years later. He read about Shay Cormac, and Achilles, and going back to Europe. He read about Birch, and read about Haytham learning the truth about his heritage after finally finding his sister Jenny, a used woman at a place called the sultan's harem. He read about Haytham nearly dying, about the closest thing he had to a friend, a man named Holden, died. He read about returning to the Americas, was morbidly fascinated to learn how the Templars slowly became aware of his existence, he read the outrage at learning the origins of Connor, learning what _Charles Lee_ had done. He read also the forgiveness of _Lee_, because _Lee _was the future, the son Connor could never be now that he was an _Assassin_.

It took him four days to read through the journal. The _journals_. Haytham Kenway was laid bare in his writings, all his thoughts and fears as a child, all his cold calculation as an adult. Duty bound him to find his sister but he had no attachment for her. Fondness attached him to his mother but not enough to learn what happened to her. Friendship bound him to Holden but was never spoken of again after his death. _Lee_ was bound by the future, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found another thing the Stone Coat had eaten: his relationship with his father.

So many emotions filled Connor over those days, and he felt them all at once: regret, jealously, sadness, anger, confusion, horror, fascination, more that he could not name. All he had ever wanted was to know his father, and it was only now, after it was too late, that he finally had that knowledge. Would it have changed anything? Would things have gone differently?

He did not know. That that was perhaps the worst feeling of all.

Eventually, though, he healed enough to move around. He was still short of breath, and often prone to dizzy spells. This was the loss of blood, Jamie explained, and would get better with time. His neck was once again a swollen mess, looking in the mirror reminded him of his time in Bellevue before, the Old Man there as he had spells of intense stress, quietly giving him permission to sleep peacefully, offering solace as he could and honest reality when he couldn't.

He missed the Old Man.

Their last words had been tenuous at best, Connor still shying away from the inevitability that Achilles seemed to always be able to predict. He wanted to speak to him now, tell him he was right (again) and learn how to carry the mess of emotions that rolled through him, let the Old Man guide him to a conclusion, a final resolution to this latest round of madness. He wanted to play a game of fanorona, and inch ever closer to beating him.

As he waited for strength to return, he joined with the others in decoding the litany of information they had looted from Fort George. He slowly learned what had happened to the others aside from what he saw: the riot leading right to the Templar base: an inn, filled with papers and journals and letters and ciphers. The last had been the most useful, and with it several documents had been transcribed. Clipper and Red Feather were dedicated copiers, this information could hardly be put to printer, and slowly assembled into past activities, current activities, and outlines for future plans. More copies would be made and forwarded to the appropriate Brotherhoods across the world: France and England and other places. Achilles would know how to best dispense the information, and in the interim Connor quickly divided his forces again across the Colonies. Almost all of them had been well placed, and several were reshuffled to better distribute the load. He also composed and sent a letter to Aveline in Louisiana, letting her know about recent events and asking if she had assassins to spare for New York and Philadelphia, the two largest centers of Templar activity.

In time, he was able to walk without pain, the stitches in his side were removed, and he set sail for Rockport.

* * *

It was market day at the port, the entire village was there selling their wares and happy to greet Connor as he disembarked. Diana and Catherine were helping their husbands and, as the biggest gossips of the village, were desperate to hear news from abroad. Faulkner stepped in quickly to deflect questions about his slow walk, hailing them instead with the awesome story of someone shelling New York at the dead of night. "Damnedest thing I ever saw!" he said brightly. "Lit up the night sky at one point, must have hit black powder! We were up by Staten Island, watched the whole thing from the deck!"

Connor slipped away with the distraction, moving up the steep hill to the manor, the quiet of autumn and the scent of drying leaves filling his senses and quieting his mind. The trees were at their peak, bright reds and yellows everywhere, soon to fade to dark golds. The path was covered in yellow oak leaves and orange pine needles. The manor was as it always was, brick and mortar standing the test of time, a symbol of strength and endurance, both of which the young native needed badly.

Achilles was not at the front door to greet him, again, meaning he was in poor health today. He opened the door quietly and stepped into the foyer, closing the door behind him and just listening to the sounds of the house. He padded softly across the worn carpet and down the hall to Achilles' room in back. He saw the Old Man sitting at the game table, bits of crumpled paper once again littered the space, but fanorona had been set up for a fresh round, chair turned slightly to face the doorframe. His hat was pulled over his eyes; apparently, he had been strong enough to get up, but not fight off sleep. He knocked on the doorframe lightly, hoping to wake him.

Nothing.

"Old Man," he said, walking in.

Still nothing.

Achilles had always been the lightest of sleepers, the result of years in silent war, he had said. It was the rarest of days when the Old Man was caught sleeping at all, and always he would wake instantly, immediately alert and quick to shrug off his rest. Never had Connor seen him so deeply asleep that he did not wake.

"Achilles..." he tried again, concerned now, and reached over to shake him awake.

The old man's head lolled to the side, hat tipping over and falling to the floor. His eyes were closed. His chest was still. There was no sound.

Only silence.

Oh...

_Oh..._

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared, eyes widening to unnatural levels as he realized what was happening. Sound slowly disappeared, the birds died away, the wind, the creak of the house, all of it smothered in silence. Eternal silence.

In Achilles' hand was a rolled up piece of paper. Even as the native's hand at his shoulder fell away in shock, he reached out and took the sheaf of paper with the other, unrolling it.

_Connor, if you are reading this, I have failed to say goodbye as I wanted..._

Everything stopped, his mind disappeared, as his eyes ran over the lines, reading the words but not understanding them. More things disappeared: hearing was already gone, but now feeling as well, his stomach had dropped and disappeared, his chest empty, his thoughts flown away as he stared at the paper. The handwriting was fine and clear as it always was, practical as the man himself. Eyes that barely saw anything went back to the body, visually caressing the age lines, looking at the streaked white locks of hair, the angle of the slouch, the stubble. More of him was disappearing, he felt like he was floating, without a body; he had lost everything.

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know how long he stood there, bereft of body and mind and sensation. It was as though a fog had descended over him, blinding him to everything but that most precious of people leaning in the chair.

He did not know anything.

He did not think anything.

He did not _understand_ anything.

Achilles...

_Achilles..._

His next dull memory was of being at the church. He did not know how he got there, nothingness still surrounded him but he could barely perceive the rows of pews, the pulpit, and Father Timothy. The preacher looked up, and something Ratonhnhaké:ton could not name crossed his face, and he moved immediately to where Ratonhnhaké:ton stood.

"What is it?" the elderly man asked, everything muffled to the young native's ears.

A voice emerged from somewhere to answer, perhaps his own, he was not certain. "... Achilles has passed."

A hand, his hand, reached out and grabbed the edge of a pew, gripping it fiercely to keep him grounded. Ratonhnhaké:ton could just barely feel the wood, the varnish, could just perceive the shape and the edges. He focused on it, turned to look at it, tried to consume himself with it, before he floated away into nothingness. Grounded. He needed to stay grounded. He was a mourner, blinded by fog and dark clouds, he needed an _akatoni_, one with a clear mind. Father Timothy would do well by this, this was his job. Fog was everywhere, it was very hard to think, but he finally managed to look up, and he saw the look of shock on Father Timothy's face.

"I'm so sorry," he said gently.

The apology stirred something in Ratonhnhaké:ton, he was not certain what, but there was an urge to say more. Perhaps he could make this better...? "He passed peacefully and with dignity."

No... _nothing_ could make this better. Achilles...

He gripped the corner of the pew more firmly, finally feeling pain in his fingers. The pain grounded him, slightly, he did not think he was going to float away anymore; but everything was still so far away, he was not sure he could hold on.

Touch. There was a hand at his shoulder, not Achilles'. His eyes saw Father Timothy again, saw his lips move, heard a muffled question. "A service then?"

… Oh. Achilles was not _Haudenosaunee_, he would not have a traditional burial. But he was still an ally of the Confederacy... would they see that? Know that? No, but he was an ally of Ratonhnhaké:ton, he was a _roiá:ner_ to everyone he trained, he deserved something. Something... more... than the ceremony the preacher would give. "Yes," he said slowly, voice only slightly clearer. "He was my _roiá:ner_, there are things... You are _akatoni_, you have a clear mind, you must... To perform the _Hai-Hai... _Please prepare something... appropriate. I need to teach you the Requickening and... and find _wampum... _I do not know..." Words failed him, and he was floating away again, utterly lost.

Somehow, he came to be sitting in one of the pews. He looked around, confused, but saw Father Timothy there, bible open and prayer beads in his hands, lips moving silently. He finished his prayer and looked up to see Ratonhnhaké:ton staring at him, and he offered a gentle smile.

"I do not know much of your people," he said. "But you are perhaps right that I have a clear mind. Is there a prayer your people offer? I will recite it gladly. Tell me about your customs. Start with the kinds of festivals you have?"

Festivals? … What?

But Father Timothy was determined, and listened to all the little details of every ceremony and festival the _Haudenosaunee_ went through, nodding when appropriate, offering a question here or there. It was a distraction, slow and gentle, building up enough presence of mind in Ratonhnhaké:ton to speak of the _Hai-Hai, _the death rituals before the fog carried him away again. He explained that there tribes were split into two moierties: the _akatoni –_ the clear minded, and the mourner. Burial happened ten days after death, and the _akatoni_ had to help the mourners: wipe the eyes, empty the ears, clear the throat; they had to remove the dead – or gather it, if it was the Festival of the Dead, clean blood from the house, sweep the death away, bring sunlight to the mourners who were blinded and sickened by the dark clouds of death. There were ceremonies, and each one had a recital of the Requickening, a fifteen verse address filled with metaphors of death and renewal. Each verse ended with colored strings of _wampum_ that represented the verse being given to the mourners, and the mourners mirroring the verse and returning it to the _akatoni_.

"I understand," Father Timothy said. Ratonhnhaké:ton could just make out the creak of the pews, sound was nearly returned to him. "Achilles was not a man for ceremonies, but I think reciting those verses will help him, do you not? We need not make beads for him I think, I have not the skill and I would not ask a mourner to perform such as task. Do you think that will be enough?"

"I... _hén_," he said weakly. "But... I will see the grave is dug. Can you gather everyone?"

It was a long trek back to the manor. Dark clouds were gathering, _Hinon_ and his Thunders rolling around, threatening a chill rain. Such a rain had been falling when he first met Achilles, he had thought it a blessing. And it had been. He would not be where he was today if not for the Old Man, and he would certainly be dead otherwise. He had hoped... But perhaps it was foolish. He had hoped the Old Man would live to see the death of _Charles Lee_, live to see the destruction of the Templars and see that pain could and would end. After hearing the story of Shay Cormac, he thought it only right that Achilles see a reward for the pain he had endured. This would have been that day except... _Lee_ had not been there. His _raké:ni_ was dead, and now that Ratonhnhaké:ton was most in need of counsel it was too late.

Rain started to fall as he grabbed the shovel, and moved to the hill. Two graves were there, graves he had never thought much of in all of his years living and training there. Two of the brotherhood, perhaps, or bones of those long before. Even now, he could not look at the graves, his mind was set on the task, and his body slowly began to go through the motions. It was slow work in the cool air, the ground hard but not frozen. Three shovels in and his side was hurting; five in and he could barely lift the shovel as his injuries protested, but his mind was no longer floating, he had a task to do, and he would do his duty without complaint or help. No one else could dig this grave. No one else was as close to the Old Man as he. No one else could do him the honor. It did not matter if he was a mourner, and this a job for the clear minded. He would let no one else perform this task. It was his last gift to the Old Man.

The cold rain poured over him, water dribbling down his face, blurring his vision and weighing him down with wet clothes, but still he shoveled, through the pain. It was a cold, steam poured off him as he worked, seeping into his bones and chilling every part of him. The pain disappeared into numbness. Twice he was sick from his work, stepping out of the grave to heave elsewhere, hands and knees covered in mud before he wiped his mouth and climbed back in. It took an eternity to dig that grave, but it was an eternity he gave gladly. When that was done, he moved into the forests, rains cleared, and looked for eagle nests. He needed feathers... there was not time for _wampum_, but for Achilles, feathers seemed more appropriate, more symbolic. When he was done he shuffled, shivering and soaked, into the house.

Timothy was there, saying nothing, only helping the young native shrug off his clothes and put him to bed.

The next morning was bright, sunny, happy in a way that Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand. His side was burning from pulled muscles, and he sat up gingerly, holding his wound. He shifted from hot to cold. His chest was empty again, his mind only partly there, and his body went through the motions of getting dressed. His eyes burned and his bones ached as he stepped out of his room and down the stairs. He walked passed the Old Man's room, and he looked in out of habit.

Yesterday hit him all at once, and he leaned heavily to the frame of the wall, desperate for air. He slid down to the floor, lost... so _lost_... and that was how Father Timothy found him hours later, when it was time for the ceremony. Ratonhnhaké:ton only dimly came to his senses.

"Do you need more time, Connor?" the preacher asked.

"... No," he said softly. "I can do this."

For Achilles, he would.

He pulled out the letter, opening it up again, wondering how he would fare after this.

_Connor, _

_If you are reading this, I have failed to say goodbye as I wanted, but the time never seemed appropriate. _

_I leave this land and all its resources to you. The papers are in my desk, locked in such a way that only those such as us may open it. With it comes a tradition that dates back to John de la Tour, and as you know even further back than that. Our ways are now your ways, and it is only fitting that this land, owned by one such as myself, is passed to one such as you._

_I trust you now know this place has become something of great significance. A community to serve as an example of what this would-be nation could become. You have found and cultivated a culture in this community that has never been seen before outside of our brotherhood. There exists the diversity of many people, many backgrounds, many languages and traditions; you have people of black and red and white skin, former slaves and downtrodden Irish and Scottish, wealthy British, women and children. And yet they work together in harmony; there is no hatred or bitterness, no self-importance or superiority. Everyone values each other equally, sees the contributions that are made exactly as they are. They stand for one another, defend one another, and protect one another against adversity. It is a marvel to behold, the greatest wish of every Brotherhood in the world made manifest. It is a community to be proud of._

_But the larger and stronger it grows, the more fragile and difficult to defend it becomes. You understand this perhaps better than anyone, yet I hope your friends who are birthing this infant country understand this truth. Your unwavering tenacity and honesty have burdened you with responsibility far greater than any one man should bear. Greater than any man can expect of their student. But _you_, if anyone, are capable. The work you have done can only be called miraculous; and the greatest of your accomplishments is that you have given an old man hope that all is not lost and for that I thank you. I have been a man dead for decades, since before the death of my brotherhood, since the death of my family. Every year I waited for my bones to understand, and yet now you have breathed life into me, made me see outside myself for the first time in years. My gratitude towards you will be unending, even in the next life._

_I ask that you lay my bones to rest on the hill overlooking the water, there is no other place on this earth I'd rather be. I am grateful to have met you, knowing you will guide this land and these people to a better future. _

_Yours in brotherhood, _

_Achilles._

Everything he had ever wanted from Achilles had been expressed in that letter: pride, compassion, understanding. Things that were so hard to say out loud done with efficient strokes of a pen – brief as he always was, but getting the most impact out of his words.

On shaky legs he got up, moved into the room (this would be sacred ground for months), and unsheathed his hidden blade, finding the hidden lock and opening up the secret compartment under the desk. Inside was the deed to the land, Achilles' papers listing him as a free man, a last will, and a list of names and addresses to every Brotherhood in the known world. The deed and freedom papers he put on his person, as Achilles had always done, feeling closeness to the Old Man as he did so. The rest he locked back away, to think about later. He took a deep breath, looking at the chair, the scattered papers. He knew, now, what those crumpled and stuttered starts held. He folded up the letter and added it to the deed and freedom papers.

He left through the back door, saw that the core of the village had arrived: Godfrey and Catherine, Terry and Diana, Warren and Prudence, Oliver and Corrine, Ellen and Big Dave, Myriam and Norris, Lance and Dr. Lyle. He stood apart, uncertain of his place.

A golden oak coffin had been constructed, the village flag made of silk wrapping the box, and the lumberjacks and Big Dave lowered it gently into the grave. Ellen had tears streaming down her face, holding her best friend Prudence who was inconsolable. Norris wept openly, Myriam gripping his shoulders even while she shook. Big Dave was a mountain, his face twisted in sadness. Lyle looked up to the sky, blinking repeatedly. Everyone held a rose.

"Prayer and sermon do not suit this occasion," Father Timothy said to begin the ceremony. "Achilles was not a man of God. Not my God, at any rate." He shifted on his feet. There was no bible in his hands, but his face was intent and his words were heartfelt. "But he certainly believed in a guiding force, and he is at peace now and for that we can be grateful. His past is shrouded in mystery, he was a man a few words, but the graves here tell us everything we need to know. We lay him to rest here, atop the bluff where he made his honorable and dignified life, so he can remain that comforting presence - the old man on the hill - that we have all grown to depend on." He paused a moment, letting the words sink in.

Ratonhnhaké:ton watched, lost in his own mind, only one ear working, drifting in his memories. So many times he felt resentment towards the Old Man, so many times he was frustrated: to wait, to train, to bide his time, to find the right moment. Sending him up and down the coast to prevent him from telling Washington the truth of the Templars. The world is not as it should be, you are a fool to change it, you're wasting your time, nothing will change. Your father must die. Do not let misplaced sentiment hold you from your duty. But in equal measure he remembered the other times, checking his wounds, waiting at the door, helping him sleep, offering solace and honesty. He had a wealth of patience to train a native in the ways of the settlers. He guarded against bad dreams, ran from his exile in Rockport to save him in New York. He was a pessimistic, complicated, recalcitrant, _irritating_ man, but his heart was pure even after all the pain he had suffered, and however well-hidden his gentleness was, Ratonhnhaké:ton had felt it. They all had felt it.

"You all had your own relationships with him," Father Timothy said, "your own moments and I implore you to return here when the time is right for you and share those stories with the waves and the trees. Clean your eyes here, empty your ears and clear your throat of the grief here." Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, hearing the words, and looked up, pulled for a moment from his own grief.

"Connor asked me to recite an Address of his people, called the Requickening. I hope it will help more than just him; the words are poetic."

And, in a halting, slightly nervous voice, he recited the Requickening, all fifteen verses. It was strange to hear it in English, some of the beauty of it was lost in translation, but the words washed over him, reaching deep into his mind and his spirit. Eagles were flying overhead, screeching their own grief, and for a brief moment he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, firm and reassuring. He turned, but Achilles was not there.

"Achilles," Timothy said, and for a moment his face broke from the clear mind of an _akatoni_, pulled down into sadness before it disappeared. "You will be missed but never forgotten. Go safely, Old Man, safely to where your soul need rest."

He tossed his rose into the grave. Warren made the sign of the cross and did the same, the others joining in, serenading the silk-wrapped coffin with the flowers. Ratonhnhaké:ton fingered his eagle feathers, unable to join them just yet. The moment held, stretching out and out, but eventually they left, one by one.

It was just him.

He knelt down, his side offering brief protest, but he closed his eyes and waited. He half wondered if he would feel a hand at his shoulder again, the only touch he ever felt truly comfortable with.

Nothing came.

… Disappointed already, Achilles?

Ratonhnhaké:ton held his feathers, praying himself, and let them drift down into the grave.

"I will make you proud, Old Man," he murmured.

He began to bury him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reaction for this chapter from our beta's was pretty consistent:
> 
> Marina: You shattered my feels...
> 
> Jacob: Yep. Big time tears... Gaah this is even sadder in written form...
> 
> Tenshi perhaps articulated it best: "tHIS TOOK SEVERAL TRIES FOR ME TO READ AND I STILL CANT GET OVER IT... I had to come back a few times to reread because I kept crying and I couldn't pay attention to the words.
> 
> The title of this chapter should technically be Death of Father(s) plural, but that was a giveaway and, moreover, Death of a (blank) deals with an assassination, and Achilles wasn't assassinated.
> 
> When we first played the game, these two memories were back to back, but in reverse order. We saw Achilles' funeral first and then went off to kill Charles Lee - oh, wait, Haytham Kenway. Fans seem to only ever really see Haytham, but to us Achilles was just as much - no even more of - a father as Haytham, and losing them both is heart-wrenching for Connor. When we played, we actually RP'ed a bit, we made Connor walk to the church instead of run, because we, like Connor, needed to wrap our heads around the fact that Achilles had died in the middle of the game right out of left field. We needed to process is as much as Connor did.
> 
> This was also the chapter where we spent FOREVER trying to research what Haudenosaunee funerals were like. Like with all other cultural bits, what we found was small and not completely clear for someone of such an alien culture. William Johnson, as an ally of the Haudenosaunee (or at least perceived ally in the games) received the full ceremony when he died of his stroke; Achilles in Connor's mind deserves the full ceremony, of course, but as an Assassin his work is not known to the Confederacy and so it is minimized - also in respect to the fact that Achilles blatantly states early on that he and Ratonhnhake:ton both are not people for ceremonies. Our research did state emphatically that the Requickening is the most spiritual part of the entire ceremony because it is, in effect, a recitation on how the Haudenosaunee view life and death, and there are apparently accounts from Haudenosaunee, like Seneca or Oneida or Kanien'keha:ka, who talk about how emotional they get during the recitation and the relief they feel by the end. If anyone reading this is a Haudenosaunee - we tried our best, we hope we did your traditions justice.
> 
> Ratonhnhake:ton of course can't take this well. One of the metaphors of the Haudenosaunee is that death is sort of an ill tiding; the grievers are blinded and deafened with their grief, and it's up to the other clans to help the bereaved through the process. Lacking anyone of his tribe in the valley, Father Timothy fills this role, the akatoni, and his job will go well into the next chapter trying to get Ratonhnhake:ton over this latest in a long string of trauma.
> 
> And we haven't even started talking about Haytham. Gaah. The Battle of the Chesapeake is obviously played closer to history, and the assault on Fort George is fleshed out quite a bit (more on that in a later chapter) not only to give the recruits a role to play but also to set up for Haytham's funeral. Ratonhnhake:ton tries yet again to reach his father - he still hasn't learned, in that respect, that Haytham is too damaged to take the hand he is offering - and astute readers will notice all the cut dialogue is added back in and expanded upon.
> 
> We still believe the fact that Ratonhnhake:ton CONVENIENTLY comes across Haytham's journals is illogical to the point of absurd - especially how it is handled in the book, but we tried to make it make sense in context. Contrived as it is, the irony of finally learning about his father after it's too late to change anything is powerful, and we played it as much as we could without spending pages and pages recounting Haytham's backstory. It's CONNOR'S story, not Haytham's, and too much focus lessens the immersion of Connor's psyche and actually hurt's Haytham. Less is more, sometimes, and we gave just enough for   
Ratonhnhake:ton to understand how broken his sire is.
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Stone Coat. Geez, as if we haven't done enough to poor Connor yet... Only three more chapters left


	30. Death of A Stonecoat

After that was the sickness. His hours out in the cold rain in conjunction with a healing gunshot wound took their toll on his body. He woke up the next morning and could hardly get out of bed. He slipped on the steps and nearly fell down the stairs, it was all he could do to make a cup of hot chocolate, and he collapsed in a chair to sip it. He shivered and sweat at the same time, and could think of little else until Father Timothy found him again. The preacher had knocked repeatedly on the door and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not heard it. He helped the young native to a bed – _Achilles'_ bed – and he dimly heard something about getting Dr. Lyle.

He could remember little for the next week, only cool hands that were not Achilles', prayers and the sound of beads. _Wampum_? Were medicine men here? Was he being effected by Achilles' spirit? Just how imbalanced was he...? Pictures flitted through his eyes: Dr. Lyle by candlelight, pressing something onto his forehead, needle and thread in hand; Father Timothy, sitting at his side with a bible open, praying. The images were colored with heat and cold and sweat and shakes, thick breathing and wet coughs. Sickness. He was sick. Of course he was sick, he was a mourner...

And then, one morning, he woke with a clear mind. No fog, no thick clouds, only tiredness. He looked around, confused, saw Father Timothy in a chair at his side.

"Welcome back," the preacher said softly. "How do you feel?"

He looked around, surprised to find himself in Achilles' bed. What happened...?

"You've been sick the last week," Timothy said gently. "The fever nearly took you. Said a lot in your native tongue, neither of us understood it."

A new face crossed his line of vision, and he saw Dr. Lyle, deep bags under his eyes and brown hair askew. "Connor," he said quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"... cold," he said.

"I expected as much," the doctor said, pushing his glasses up his hooked nose and grabbing at another blanket. "Fever broke last night, thank God. I knew it was a matter of time before you woke again. We are going to have a long talk about this," he added, finger hovering over his gunshot wound, "but for now what you need is sleep above all else."

"... was it a dream?" he asked, voice thick. "Achilles...?"

The men shared a quick look, but Father Timothy turned and shook his head. "I'm sorry, my son," he said. "That was not a dream."

He had not thought so. But he dared to hope.

Strength came to him over the next week, Lyle and Timothy both his appointed caretakers. Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a heavily abridged account to Dr. Lyle about how he managed to be shot in the back, and Father Timothy seemed bound and determined to look after the health of his soul as he slowly processed the fact that his Mentor was dead. Eventually, however, deep into November, he was left in the manor by himself. A fistful of letters had arrived from Virginia and Philadelphia and elsewhere, and slowly he began to catch up on the news:

Namely, General Cornwallis had surrendered to Commander Washington at Yorktown. It was a victory that everyone had been hoping for, the news had spread like wildfire through the village, everyone happy to hear one piece of good news in the sadness they were currently living.

Connor felt nothing. It was his shared goal with the Patriots to defeat the British, to show them that self-governance was something to be celebrated instead of stomped on, to express the desire to hold to rational law. He thought he should feel glad, accomplished, happy for the Americans, but there was nothing in him to feel. Washington was a slave owner with no care for the native peoples, fork-tongued and quick to equivocate and investigate instead of take actual action. Sam Adams was no longer part of the Continental Congress, retired to his home in Massachusetts, and he knew no one else in Philadelphia. His people had been devastated by the Sullivan Expedition, war had torn the _Haudenosaunee_ to shreds of its former glory; where once there were the pillars of the long house there was now nothing. New York was still a rotting wound, half burned down and fraught with sickness and disease. _Charles Lee_ was still alive.

… Achilles was dead.

How could he be happy?

He shuffled down to the root cellar, uncertain what he would do but wanting to at least _try_ and get back into shape. He looked over at the paintings and saw his father.

Oh...

Haytham was dead, too.

He moved over to the paintings, the white paint crossing out each target, the notes he had written, the scraps of plans and intercepted letters and ciphers, staring up at the visage of his father. The journals bled into his already overstuffed mind, his father's purpose in coming to the Colonies, the Grand Temple, the artifact that would open it, finding his mother and choosing to conquer her, only to be conquered instead. Jenny. Holden.

… He could not cross the man out. It was too callous, too unfeeling. It did not represent what he felt about his _raké:ni _being dead. What he felt about reading those journals. It was not the removal of a piece on the board, it was the death of his _father_, and all he felt was regret. Regret that they had never known each other, regret they could not understand each other, regret there had been such an overpowering falling out. Yes, that was the word he wanted.

_Sakaterihwáhten_.

He wrote the word slowly, with care, making each letter clear.

After that was giving the news of the death of Achilles to the brotherhood. It took him three days of drafts to compose it, his mind quick to drift, disappear for hours at a time, lost in memory.

_Brothers,_ he finally wrote. _It is with a heavy heart that I must pass on the loss of a _sachem_ of great esteem._ He gave as accurate an account of the life of Achilles Davenport as he could: student of Ah Tabai and John de la Tour, who crafted a strong and worthy brotherhood; who suffered painful lessons and loss that no one man should bear; who spent years lost in his grief before he found hope again. He introduced himself, Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka, _riién_ of Haytham Kenway and _riiateré:_ of Edward Kenway. He supposed that he would be the Mentor unless the others found him unworthy. He detailed his exploits as clinically as he could, expressed his uncertainty and his regret, and his hope that he would find his way into their hearts having never met him.

It was the most difficult letter he could imagine writing, but finally he ciphered them and made copies, and sent them to Faulkner to be delivered.

"You sure you want me leaving, captain?" the old salt asked. "Don't like the idea of you being alone."

"I will be fine," Connor replied. "Father Timothy is a good _akatoni_."

"Don't rightly know what that means," Faulkner said slowly, "But I usually know when you're off about something. I'll be back soon as I can."

"I understand. I hope you have a safe journey."

"I hope _you_ are still sane by the time I get back."

* * *

With the new year, Connor spent a great deal of time in the manor. Lyle stopped by weekly to see how the gunshot wound was healing, Father Timothy was by twice a week to talk with Connor and continue his role as an _akatoni_, the clear-minded. Myriam and Prudence also came by regularly to drop off food and ensure he was eating well. Godfrey and Terry kept coming up with firewood for him, Lance and Dave seemed to just appear once in a while to go over any lumber or smithy needs, repairing broken axels or re-shoeing horses. On holidays, Corrine, Diana, and Catherine showed up and insisted on cooking a "hearty meal" for him before he became "skin and bones".

All the visits were pleasant and Connor tried to be kind and appreciative of all their efforts. But there were times he just didn't feel up to dealing with all the people coming to the manor to try and help. None of them were Achilles. They didn't know everything that he did, they didn't know that he was _hirokoa_, an Assassin. So they couldn't _understand_. He often just headed out and walked in the snow, seeking isolation in the tall barren trees that seemed to emulate how he felt inside.

So much loss...

He lived off the land out in the forests, but he could never stay away for too long. He had only done that once, and Myriam was soon attempting to track him in the woods with Warren and his loyal dog. Though Connor hid too well and watched them walk right by his spot in the snow-covered shrubs without any knowledge that he was there, he eventually sighed. He was causing people worry. When Myriam and Warren made camp, he'd silently joined them and followed them home.

So he never wandered too far or for too many days.

It was one day, when Connor was in the library, reading one of the books that Achilles never got around to getting him to read. It was almost his project for the winter, to go through all the books Achilles had that Connor had never had the chance to read. Old Farmer's Almanacs, records, treatises on politics, law, governance, equality, a book of mathematics from a Greek named Euclid that Connor found both frustrating and fascinating. It was a way to occupy his mind when he did not wish to focus on just how much his world had changed in one season and having lost a _raké:ne_ and a _roiá:ner_. To not have something for his mind to focus on meant that he was dwelling on _Lee_, how to find him, how to _kill_ him. The _atenenyarhu_ had eaten his mother, his village, his people, his father, his chief... almost everything. And still the Stone Coat was not sated...

Connor refocused on his book.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and was unsurprised to see someone coming up the path. It looked to be Norris, which was unusual. The miner usually couldn't come up with a good excuse to come and visit like almost everyone else in the village did, so he sent his support with Myriam and Prudence.

Connor watched, the grey skies above blocking the daytime sun, leaving everything void of color. Norris hiked up the trail, lacking proper snow shoes, but with his legs wrapped in deerskins. His feet sunk through the snow, and Connor remembered that he had not yet shoveled from the snow that had fallen the previous day.

But to his surprise, Norris didn't come up to the house. Instead, he just walked around in back. Curious, and glad that something else could occupy his mind, Connor followed Norris's progress from almost every window in the house. The miner walked past the stables, out back, and Connor moved back to his room wondering why Norris didn't just use the main path down to the shores. If he was heading down to the docks, why cut across the property?

He watched Norris tread through snow that was much deeper than the path because it had never been shoveled since the snows had started. All the way to the gravestones.

_I implore you to return here when the time is right for you and share those stories with the waves and the trees. Clean your eyes here, empty your ears and clear your throat of the grief here_.

Father Timothy's words flooded through Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he staggered back from the window, not wishing to see something so private. His eyes watered. His chest emptied. And he was soon walking down the path away from the manor to find the _akatoni_. Because Ratonhnhaké:ton had not realized... He had felt the loss so keenly, been lost in the fog... Might still be lost in the fog if he didn't occupy himself... And he hadn't realized that he was not the only one to lose Achilles. Where Ratonhnhaké:ton was often away, traveling through the war, visiting cities and colonies far and wide, it had been _Achilles_ who had stayed behind. Achilles was just as much an anchor for Rockport as all the people. Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't the only one set adrift by the loss.

And it was so selfish of himself to think that he alone was bereft.

They may not know of the Assassins, but they were still part of the family, nonetheless.

After that, Connor made sure that there was always a clear path to the gravestones, even if he himself had yet to talk to the Old Man. His feelings were still too strong and still too tangled to put into proper words. So once he had shoveled a path to the headstones, he simply offered his apologies, and returned to the manor.

After Norris, Connor sometimes would observe others standing by the stones. He always let them be. By March, Connor was getting word from his various bureaus, along with very long personal letters of sorrow and sadness at Achilles's passing. Reading those letters was one of the most difficult things Connor did, and after each letter, he often went to find Father Timothy. Lafayette's sent word that his return to France had been met with many honors, including a very, _very_ large promotion to _maréchal de camp_, and that he was preparing for an expedition to the British West Indies in the Caribbean. Washington was in Philadelphia, trying to convince Congress that one sound defeat did not a war win and that Congress needed to start setting aside money for the next summer's campaign since the British had only admitted defeat in one city, not across the whole country, despite the British claim that all hostilities were suspended.

Washington was also dealing with corrupt suppliers and all the hassles of basic management. Connor didn't even feel anything towards that. His feelings towards the Commander were more numbness than anything else. Washington had also boosted morale of the army greatly with the Badge of Military Merit, a purple heart-shaped cloth for unusual gallantry or extraordinary fidelity and essential service.

To Connor's surprise, the Commander had sent him one of the badges. With it was a letter, explaining that Washington believed Connor had earned it, though he had never been enlisted, and his heroic deeds either when crossing the Delaware River, helping Lafayette at Monmouth, or investigating both _Charles Lee_ and Benedict Arnold, despite the personal betrayal that Washington had done, deserved some recognition, even if Connor did not care for who gave it.

Uncertain what to do with it, for Washington was correct, Connor _didn't_ care for who had bestowed the medal, he instead stuffed it in a drawer of the desk.

As spring started to bloom, Connor suddenly realized that he had gotten up, done his morning run, and basically went about his normal day without once thinking about the Old Man. That stung. It stung a lot. But it no longer ached. It seemed Father Timothy was doing a very good job as an _akatoni_. Looking at all the colors of the flowers and the greens as the trees filled in, Connor felt like they were more vibrant than he'd ever felt they had been before. His eyes were indeed cleaned. His ears were cleaned.

Connor squished through the mud to the graves and stared down at them.

His throat was not cleared.

He tried, but the words would not come.

Connor was sitting in the _Mile's End_ eating a hearty dinner that Corrine insisted on giving him ("You're still so thin, m'dear!") when Connor realized why his throat had not cleared.

_Lee_ was still out there. The last of his enemies. The most dangerous and devious. The one that kept _getting_ away. The cannibalistic _atenenyarhu_ that had eaten so much of his life. His throat would be plugged as long as _Lee_ lived. He had lost sight of _Lee_ when he'd realized that Achilles was gone.

Now it was time to right the error. It was time to get rid of _Lee_.

Slaying the _atenenyarhu_ wouldn't bring back Achilles. Nor would it bring back his _raké:ni_. It wouldn't bring back his mother, restore his people to how they were, or bring back Kanen'tó:kon. But it would rid the world of its evil. Connor once more spent more time in the manor, but this time writing letters, focusing on the bureaus on this side of the Atlantic. He needed to find _Lee_. He could only hope that Clipper would find him at his plantation in Virginia.

Most of the summer was sending letters back and forth. Clipper was keeping a sharp eye on _Lee's_ plantation, but there was no sign of him. Jamie, in Philadelphia was the only one who was hearing anything of the Stone Coat, suggesting that he was in the capital trying to garner support again, but everything was unconfirmed. Dobby also had rumors of the Stone Coat showing up in New York to try and get support, but they were also unconfirmed. Neither rumor would be a surprise, since with the Templars destroyed or being hunted down, the Stone Coat would of course try and regain power after Ratonhnhaké:ton had cut off so much of it.

Word also came that the various mentors of the Order had approved of Connor as the new Mentor for the United States of America. Hopefully, within a year, a more seasoned mentor would visit to explain things that could not dared be put to pen and paper, though none of those who wrote were certain who that might be. Along with responses about Mentorship, came many sympathies from the Mentors, and even within his own brotherhood spread out as it was. To Connor's great surprise, a beautiful sword arrived late in June, encrusted in jewels, gold and silver, with a note that a grateful man was greatly saddened to hear of Achilles's death, and was giving the sword that Achilles had refused to take in life from a man he had saved.

The gift only reminded Connor that Achilles had had a long and prosperous life that he had known little of. Like many things did, it stung, and ached, and Connor would seek Father Timothy during those moments for the _akatoni_ to help him.

"Connor," the pastor said once as they sat in the pews of the church. "You have come to me a great many times since Achilles's death. Should I think you wish to learn more of my religion?"

To that Connor gave a wan smile. "No," he replied softly, enjoying the quiet of the church that wasn't quite so oppressive as the silence of the manor could be. "You are _akatoni_. The clear-minded. You help me put things in perspective. That is merely because you are who you are. Religion has little to do with it."

"Then I won't press any further."

And that was why Father Timothy was such a valued addition to the community.

* * *

Connor was finishing his morning run, bare-chested and sweating profusely in the humid August heat. It was easily midmorning, and Connor was wondering if there would be thunderstorms that afternoon with how thick the air was. A stiff breeze coming up from the southeast did little to ease the heat and he walked behind the manor to the bluff overlooking the small cove. Maybe he should go for a swim later on to help cool off before heading in to town. There were some supplies he needed... wait...

Narrowing his eyes, Connor looked out to the horizon and then rushed inside to grab his spyglass and climb atop the roof for a better vantage point. "A ship..."

A heavily damaged ship.

Mast leaning heavily, sails in tatters, rigging tangled in a mess, a ship was slowly entering the harbor and limping towards the docks. Through the spyglass, Connor could hardly see any men manning the lines or anchors, only a single man at the wheel. Not good.

Connor swiftly climbed down and leapt onto the black mare, barebacked, and rushed her into town.

"Doctor Lyle!" he shouted. "Doctor Lyle!"

"Connor?" the good doctor stepped out from behind his house where he had likely been tending his herbs. "What's the matter?"

"A ship has arrived, but is severely damaged. I suspect there are injured on board."

"Right!" Without any other prompting, Lyle raced into his house and grabbed his bag and then paused, before going back in for another bag. "We don't have time to hook up my buggy!" he shouted, and Connor helped him up onto his mare. The doctor was clearly uncomfortable riding barebacked, and had to grip Connor firmly as well as his bags, but they raced down to the small dock were people were already rowing out to help bring the ship in safely.

"Captain!" shouted one of the Clutterbucks who had stayed home on leave. "Looks like that ships been through a hurricane!"

"I agree!" he shouted back, easing his horse to a stop. "I have brought Dr. White to tend to the injured that are likely aboard."

"We need to set up an examination table," Lyle already started to give out orders. "Maybe two or three, depending on if I need to do any surgery. Hot water to sterilize! A horse ready to head back to my home for anything I run out of or need!"

Men were already scrambling to set things up to make things go as quickly and smoothly as possible. A wide set of boards was balanced between a pair of barrels as a makeshift table, since most tables were too small for what Lyle needed. Water was fetched from a well and set to boil and Lyle set down his bag on the table to lay out his instruments. He called for men to be ready to help him hold men down as if they were conscious, they likely wouldn't like whatever he had to do to sew up wounds or set broken bones.

An hour later, the ship was finally docked and Connor raced up the gangplank to start helping people aboard. Lyle was at the base of the plank, and as sailors helped the frazzled, beaten, and starved men off the ship, Lyle started shouting where they needed to go as he started triaging. Those who would die were laid out on the beach, those in critical condition were set up by his examination board were he would likely end up doing surgery, and the rest were laid wherever they could settle down. The dead were left on the ship for now.

There were a great many people on board.

The ship was a passenger ship of some kind, though from where and to where was unclear as most passengers were so hungry or parched as to be incoherent. Lyle quickly had some coffee boiling and ordered it to be served to everyone, but nothing more as these people likely wouldn't take solid food well.

"Someone go see Corrine about getting a light broth down here!"

Connor flitted about serving out cups of coffee, helping people drink it, and doing what he could with the bandages that Lyle provided.

"You've done field medicine, right? Help me by setting some of these bones!"

So Connor did the painful work of pulling shoulders that were dislocated back into their sockets and getting splints set. Twice, the people he was helping screamed in such pain they tried to punch Connor. But given how starved and weak they were, it didn't even faze him. It was the small children that pulled at Connor's heart the most. Wraithlike and down to bones, the youngest were the hardest to treat. Those that were conscious were confused and asking for parents, but no one knew who was who yet.

"It will be all right," Connor said softly, "a moment of pain is all you will feel. It is understandable if you cry."

The little boy was already sniffling, his arm all twisted at odd angles and bone thin. "Aren't you a savage?" he asked softly, terror in his eyes. "Will you scalp me? Or eat me?"

"Shh," Connor ran his sweaty and bloodied hands through the young boy's matted hair. "I will do no such thing. I will set your bone. You have heard of setting a bone have you not?"

The boy sniffed and nodded.

"That is all I will do. Set the bone and splint it."

"O...okay..."

The boy passed out once the arm was straight.

"Connor!" Lyle shouted, wiping sweat from his brow with a blood-coated hand. "I simply can't get to all these men in reasonable time. I need help! Not just from you, but from anyone!"

Connor immediately thought of Diana, who had cared for Achilles in his final days while Connor had been hunting down the Stone Coat.

"I think I have someone for you!"

"Hurry!"

Racing for his mare, who was still barebacked, he leapt up and drove in his heels racing up to town. The sun was at its zenith and bearing down on everyone with brutality as Connor skidded to a halt in front of lumber mill, where Catherine and Diana were setting out lunch for their husbands.

"Diana!" he called, his horse prancing with energy. "Come with me! I need your help!"

Diana quickly stood, as did the rest of the Scotsmen.

"O' course," she said, walking up. "What's the matter?"

"Dr. White is overwhelmed and needs extra hands."

"I'm no doctor, Connor," Diana's face scrunched in worry. "I never learned any o' that."

"Maybe not," Connor said, reaching down a dirty hand, "but I have seen you care for people before. You have the way of it."

"I'll come too," Terry said, already racing to get a horse.

"We'll tell the rest o' the town," Godfrey said. "See what we can do."

"Come."

Hesitantly, Diana took Connor's hand and he hoisted her up so that she could sit side-saddle and then raced back the way he came. He explained the situation along the ride of how the morning had been, the passengers, and the likely long and gruesome task of identifying bodies that the town would eventually have to do.

Once back on the shore, Connor guided Diana to where Lyle stood over a young woman, her shirt open, modesty ignored in favor of practicality, and her stomach open as Lyle was stitching something up inside of her.

"Diana!" he breathed, rubbing more sweat from his brow, smearing the mess. "I'm told you have a healer's hand. Please, help me! Hold here and here while I stitch. Connor, get back to setting the bones you can."

The afternoon remained painfully long. People from the town were down by the shore within two hours, with wagons and buckboards loaded with blankets and clean clothes for whatever Lyle needed. While the extra hands were useful, very few knew doctoring, and as such, weren't sure how to help. Connor, remembering how Achilles had organized things when Norris had been trapped in a cave-in, started setting everyone into teams.

The ship was soon emptied of supplies and cargo, laid out in the hot August sun, and those who could read were going through the ships logs to try and get names for everyone and start asking questions and identifying people. Father Timothy, ever the _akatoni_, bore the difficult task of performing last rites on not only the dead, but also those who were too hurt for Lyle and Diana to do anything. Warren and Prudence worked with Ollie and Corrine to keep food going so that no one forgot to eat as the long day continued, Myriam and Norris kept boiled water handy and kept insisting that everyone wash up before they even _thought_ of eating with such dirty hands. Obviously, their time locked in Lyle's house when consumption had raced through the town had done something to teach them a few things. Dave, with his bad leg, couldn't do much to help, but he surveyed the cargo and supplies, raiding it for whatever was needed in the care of all the people. Ellen stayed with the children, her daughter Maria, now twenty, stayed with the children to keep them occupied and keep giving them coffee and broth.

As the skies started to look distinctly unpleasant as the afternoon went on, with the wind picking up even further, tents were soon set up to keep out the rain that was coming down in droves by the time the sun set. Lyle, who had been working non-stop since Connor had found him, finally collapsed into a chair and Norris rushed forward with the boiling water and a towel for the good doctor to wash his hands of all the blood.

"You all did well," Lyle said tiredly, meticulously cleaning his hands with the water and towels. "I thank you Connor for your quick thinking in getting Diana and so many others." He turned to the Scotswoman with a tired smile. "But Diana, _you_ impressed me greatly."

Diana actually blushed. "Well, thank you, doctor. I haven't studied the practice or anything."

Lyle nodded, but kept smiling. "Maybe not, but your instincts are superb and you have a healer's touch. If you have the time, I would be grateful for your help on a more regular basis."

Turning to Terry, she gave a small smile. "With the young ones all grown, I might be able to drop by. Catherine will have to do the laundry herself."

"And if she can't," Lyle said with a touch of firmness, "we'll find someone who will."

Terry looked uncertain about all, this, but he didn't exactly oppose it.

* * *

The rest of the week was spent organizing and treating all the injured. Those who were stable were brought up to the clinic or to the inn, and as the people started to get used to regular food and become more energetic, they started to help with identifying each other and cargo and such. The passengers were all an interesting mix of peoples from different countries, all who had been heading to Canada for various reasons. Connor left their care for the townsfolk as autumn started to slowly roll in through September. He was getting some interesting word from Jaime in Philadelphia. People from across the Colonies were gathering, of all shape and form, rumors were for a memorial for a great man who died, just over a year ago.

Haytham Kenway.

Connor's heart froze as he read the letter, eyes widening as he sat there, before energy poured into his feet and he darted down to the root cellar, looking at all the paintings, including that of his father. All that was left was _Lee_... except now that was no longer the case. This was not a game of fanorona, won once all the pieces were removed. _Lee_ had found new men and women, new Templars to once again route the new nation, still in its infancy, still uncertain of its footing, still malleable for maligned interests. Killing them all was not enough. Haytham was dead. His _raké:ni_ was _dead._ _Charles Lee_ now led the Templar Order in his place.

"I see now," he said softly. "I see now why ours is an eternal war. For each piece taken from the board, another is placed upon it. Back and forth we go. Across the world. Across the ages." It was not fanorona, or checkers, or chess, or even a game at all. Games could simulate a war but it could not replicate it, replicate changing climates, betrayals, unfair outcomes, selfish desires. All his life Ratonhnhaké:ton thought that if he only killed them all, killed _Charles Lee_, then everything would be well; his village safe and his task complete. Jamie's letter had ruined the last threads of that belief. It had started all again. Some days, it felt an impossible task. How could he remove so many pieces, how could he stamp out the Templars, the _Atenenyarhu_, and ever be done? _Could_ he ever be done? Would he live to the age of Achilles, old and weathered and bittered by his struggle, only to die at some Templar's hand? No. He could not afford to be consumed with doubt. The people needed him. Now, more than ever.

"I must stop the Templars," he said, looking at the portrait of his father. "I will kill _Charles Lee_."

He wrote the bureaus, asking them to assemble in Philadelphia, to bring everything with them. If all the _Atenenyarhu_ were gathering there to mourn his father, then he would bring about the entire brotherhood, answer their memorial with the blood the enemy had spilt for so many years, for so many centuries. This was an opportunity he could not afford to miss. If he succeeded here, if he killed _Charles Lee_ and all his followers, then they would be safe for more than a few months or a year. It would be an incalculable loss for the Templars, and make them think twice before coming to the Americas. The victory for the brotherhood would give them room to grow, a chance to acclimate to this new country and find places they were needed.

What he was planning was brutal, deadly, and as cold as what his father had unleashed with Shay Cormac. There would be no mercy here, no offering of peace. Perhaps with Haytham... but _never_ with _Charles Lee_. That demon had no other option but to die. He had taken everything, _everything:_ _Ista, Raké:ni,_ Kanen'tó:kon, even _Achilles_, and now there was nothing left to take. With him dead, his quest granted by Iottsitíson would be complete.

He glanced at the journals, Haytham's journals. With _Charles Lee _dead, the amulet could be returned to his people, a gift to Oiá:ner perhaps, proof that Kanatahséton was at last safe. Or he could return it as an offering to the Great Snake _Oniarekó:wa_. With such a great gift perhaps the horned serpent would spare more than just travelers, perhaps the Great Spirit capsized and ate people looking for that medallion. Regardless, it had to be retrieved, it did _not_ belong to the Templars, it belonged with _his people_.

His people... He ran a hand through his hair. He had worn settler hair long enough. It was past time to wear his hair as he should.

He took a knife – eagle hilt, perfect balance with a serrated tip, a gift from the Old Man – and began shaving. By tradition he should pluck his hair, but he was as ever in a hurry. Long strings of hair fell about his bare shoulders, he watched his progress in a mirror as he shaved his dark tresses away, leaving only a square tuft of hair at his crown. He braided the hair carefully, weaving in eagle feathers and _wampum_ he had been collecting since the death of the Old Man. Achilles had always been respectful of his ways and traditions, never commenting on the differences of his world view and that of the settlers, never stopping him from his ceremonies and even helping him gather _wampum_. He pulled a string from the cuff of Achilles' coat, realizing belatedly he had never asked why or how the _Roiá:ner'kó:wa_ had been honored by such elaborate decoration on his cuffs, and wove it into his braids.

Ratonhnhaké:ton left the manor to buy supplies from the village. Everyone stared at his new hair; he felt shy but did not waver, saying nothing as he bought bowstrings from Ellen, arrowheads from Big Dave, dried fruit and seeds from Oliver and Corrine, medicine from a deeply concerned Dr. Lyle, wooden toothpicks from Godfrey and Terry, shafts from Lance, and meal from the Freemans.

He booked passage on one of the ships from in the bay and left that night. The ship hooked around the cape, down the coast and into the Delaware Bay, up the Delaware River. He passed the mouth of the Schuylkill River and wondered how the troops were doing; if they were ready to winter at Valley Forge again. Twenty minutes later he was docked, disembarked and walking along side Anne as she guided him through the narrow streets. "That's Carpenter's Hall," she said, "Over there's the State House, where the Congress is meeting. Jamie's got a room for us at the hospital, though, so we need to take a left here."

Connor could not say he knew the area well, though he had been to the city before, and he took the time to sweep his eyes left and right, absorbing the feel of the city, the alleys and markets and smells and sounds.

Pennsylvania Hospital was the first hospital in the colonies, beating out even Bellevue in New York City. Founded thirty years ago in 1751 by Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Thomas Bond, it was conceived as a place for the sick, free of charge, funded entirely by private donations. Known locally for innovation and medical advancement, it was a teaching hospital with a focus on maternity. It had a medical library (that Dr. Lyle would likely faint over) and plans for an as-yet unmade physic garden of medicinal plants such as Dr. White had behind his house. Anne led Connor through the grounds and into the hospital, the scent of sickness everywhere before she led him down a narrow hall and into a tiny hovel of a room that was overstuffed with _Hirokoa_.

"Connor," Duncan said with a wry smile. "Glad ye could be joinin' us."

"What do we know so far?" he asked, leaning against the closed door. Red Feather moved to sit by his legs, giving Anne room to seat herself on the floor as several others were. Clipper had his rifle leaning in a corner, while Stephane, Dobby, Jacob and William all squeezed together on the bed, Jamie in the one chair and Duncan and Joseph propped up against a table. Everyone looked to the doctor.

"As Dobby and Anne can personally attest," he said, "women talk a lot. They talk even more when they're giving birth, and through them I've been learning about the influx of people coming in from the other colonies – I guess they're states now – preparing for a memorial of some kind. Travel in that kind of numbers is noticed. That was at the beginning of the month, and I realized what it was and I sent the letter. I didn't think it would get to you in time."

"Do you know when? And where?" Connor asked softly, his mind slowly bending towards the task.

"Gloria Dei's, the Old Swedes' Church, about a mile and a half down the river. Tomorrow. We've got about fifty members easily, all gathered to remember the old Grandmaster. Lee will be there to give the eulogy. I don't know where they're staying, though, and I'd rather not fight on holy ground, everything permitted or not."

"No," Connor said softly, nodding his head. "We must act in secret, and a church is a public place. We will offer them bait instead, and they will lead us to their stronghold."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Connor," Dobby said, crossing her legs, "But what kind o' bait are ye thinkin' o' offerin'?"

"Myself."

Silence fell about the room, several members of the brotherhood exchanging glances, uncertain what could be said to such a statement. The moment stretched from shocked to awkward to finally painful, before Stephane gave a bitter French curse. "You cannot be serious!" he hissed.

"I am," Connor said softly. His sandy tenor held everyone's attention; he continued. "_Charles Lee_ must die, and an example must be made. To do so, more than he must die. I had thought that peace might be made between our two peoples, but it cannot be done. Human or not they are Stone Coats, men and women who have chosen to satiate themselves by eating those around them, and I have at last come to learn that they will never repent from such actions. Instead they laud it; they enjoy consuming the lives and loved ones of others, enjoy the power of it, enjoy controlling everything and everyone. If left alone they will grow again to threaten this nation, sneak their people into the Congress as they have snuck people in to every single government around the world, and use that power to eat even more people. This is our chance to send a message to them and to every Rite in the world: this country will not be so easily consumed. It will also give us the opportunity to grow, as _Hirokoa_ and as members of this new nation; it will give us an advantage that we are about to deny them.

"We must kill them. All of them. Leave none alive. The other Rites must be left to wonder what happened, worry how they disappeared, be anxious that the same could happen to them. That is the message we must send, and it cannot be done in a church, where anyone might see. Instead, I will allow myself to be captured. _Lee_ will glory in it, in the power that gives him, and he will choose to keep me alive to eat as much of me as he can. That is the mistake he will make, and it will be up to the rest of you to follow him to their hide out, wherever it may be, and plan the assault. Plan it well, plan it carefully, take all the time necessary, and then strike with the force of _Hinon_ and his Thunders."

"_Unsinn,_" Jacob said. "Such an attack would take days to plan."

"Then take days."

Joseph was irate. "We cannot let them have you for that long...!"

"You must," Connor said simply. "Or else one of them will live, and that cannot happen."

"We can't kill _fifty_ people with just us," Anne said, "We're barely a dozen, how could we possibly-"

"That is what you will have to do," Connor replied. "You are all trained, skilled in your crafts and abilities, and there are many ways to kill them. I trust all of you with my life."

"But... _literally_?"

"Yes."

They all dismissed to their different inns and taverns, many giving Ratonhnhaké:ton intense looks, but the native himself was calm. He sat cross-legged in his room, eyes closed, visualizing the upcoming day, knowing what he was sacrificing and content with his decision. This was the final reckoning, there were no other plans after this. He would either succeed, or... But there was no other option but to succeed. This was his life's goal: _Kill Charles Lee_. And now he was accomplishing Achilles' goal: Destroy the Templars. There would be no misplaced sentiment, that had died with his father. There would be no olive branches, no mercy, no quarter. Only bloody, cold, death. Necessary death. For his people and people everywhere.

Kanen'tó:kon thought him a traitor, but this would redeem Ratonhnhaké:ton's single worst sin.

The Haudenosaunee thought him _atenenyarhu_, but this would protect them for years to come.

Achilles thought him naive, but this would prove he was no longer a child.

What would he do after this? What would happen once his people were safe? He thought of Red Feather's question: what would happen if we win? What would he do?

Go home. That much was obvious. Give news that his people were safe from the Stone Coats, that the danger had at last passed. After... he was not sure. He had never thought that far ahead, never considered what life after the death of _Charles Lee_ would be like. Even now, nothing came to mind, and he quickly turned it to more practical pursuits – how would he turn himself over to _Lee_, what would be the best approach, what could he do to minimize the pain that was about to come? Could he get word to his brothers and sisters if things went sour?

In the end, none of it mattered. He would either succeed or not. If it did not, he would find a way to kill _Charles Lee_ himself.

His mind slowly drifted to his early memories: _Ista_ when she was alive. He remembered little, so much of his mind had been burned with the fire and her death, but he had pieces, images. A frown of disapproval, putting bear grease in her hair, the sensation of being carried. The clearest image was of her face, looking over at something in the longhouse. It must have been night, everything was cast in the orange glow of fire... or maybe it was the night she died. _That_ image would never go away, the blood, the bone, trying so hard to lift the wood. He remembered her voice, so full of pain but still so strong as she begged him to leave. He remembered the look in her eyes before he saw no more.

Nothing had felt safe after that, anxiety so deep a part of him he never knew what it was like to not feel it. It was not until he had the quest of Iottsitíson, until he met Achilles who knew his pain so intimately well, that he felt relief in his chest. Now, even that small relief was gone. Achilles was dead, and with him went any form of solace. No matter how strained their relationship, how difficult the Old Man was, the _Roiá:ner'kó:wa_ always found a way to offer solace. Even _Oiá:ner_ could not give him piece of mind as Achilles did. Now anxiety was once again a constant companion. All he could do was wonder what else would be taken from him before _Charles Lee_ was dead.

That fear of more loss had driven him to this. He knew he was being reckless, even desperate. This was an action he would have done as a child – determined to kill them all as quickly as possible. A part of him could see now what Achilles saw – the rashness, the oversimplification. Now that he was older Ratonhnhaké:ton better understood his actions, he understood how complicated the world was, he understood the weight of killing men and women, he understood the consequences of the decision he had made. He understood what his other options were, the gains and the costs, and this was the best decision he could make – not only for himself but for the Order. It was that knowledge that gave him stillness. Calm.

Dawn broke and he at last put himself to bed, sleeping for four hours before Red Feather woke him up. They met at the City Tavern, newly built in 1772, barely ten years old and very genteel in atmosphere with fine clothes and tailored coats. Jamie and William had a few more details from their respective contacts. The tense ripple of anticipation filled the group. Noon came, and as one they rose to begin their mission.

"This is a dark day," Connor said. "This is not an action that is lauded or celebrated, or even remembered. This will change us in ways we do not yet know – dark ways because of these dark deeds. But I know that the consequences of this day for this nation will be positive, and I will accept this burden gladly for the sake of this country, the ideals it purports, and for the safety, however temporary, it will afford us to grow and become better in our work. May we never need to do something like this again."

"Here, here," someone, Joseph maybe, said.

They split apart, each having a different route to the church. Ratonhnhaké:ton lingered, going to his room and the paints he had prepared. It was passed time he acknowledged this battle as a war. He dipped his fingers in the mixtures, running them down his face, watching himself transform in a mirror. Connor was gone now, even Ratonhnhaké:ton had all but disappeared. All that was left was an _Hirokoa_. He was an embodiment of the Creed, his people, his brotherhood.

Now he went to war.

Gloria Dei Old Swedes' Church was originally a blockhouse repurposed in 1677 before being rebuilt in 1697. In spite of a fire in 1740 the church was still a Lutheran church and the oldest house of worship in the state. Almost on the river, the church was not nearly so filled as Jamie's numbers had implied, but _Charles Lee_ was there, talking to fellow Templars and moving about the small morning crowds. Ratonhnhaké:ton stayed at the edge, kneeling at a grave as if in prayer, watching people arrive and _Charles_ greeting them. He could not see his brothers and sisters, and that meant they were well hidden. He waited.

And then, _Charles_ began to speak.

"We gather today to remember a man of peerless vision, who sought to change the world. And change the world he did. Look around. Even now the British prepare to retreat - their spirits broken - their forces splintered. The Patriot leadership shall soon follow - either into our service or into the ground. And then, my friends, all of this will finally be ours!" He gave a grand gesture, encompassing all the Colonies, all the States, with a sweep of his hand, casually talking about eating an entire nation, digesting all who would oppose him. "We have Haytham to thank for this. He and all those others who sacrificed for our cause. But he was not content merely to save the people of America, no, his compassion was far greater than that. He sought to save those sworn to our destruction. He sought to save the Assassins."

The crowd murmured, and Ratonhnhaké:ton took his cue, quietly rising to his feet and turning. The morning sky was overcast, grey as thin streaks of gold light struggled to break through. "Aye," _Charles_ said. "It seems a mad thing, now, a year after the tragedy. But he believed it fully; he believed he could save the Assassins, bring them to see the truth of the world, make them see the error of their ways. And it cost him his life. The Assassins are a cruel and terrible coven," he snarled, anger bleeding into his voice and tone. "They speak only the language of death. Kill or be killed, it is the only thing they can comprehend. Even the bonds of blood cannot sway them from their desire to kill anyone and everyone. Too late Haytham learned the truth of this. Murdered by his own son, a creature more savage animal than human. He gave his life as he lived, in service to a dream we all share. And so we must fight on. We will vanquish our enemies. We will spread our word. And in time, my brothers and sisters, in time we will have our New World."

And then, he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton. The white hood was a beacon to everyone in the crowd as he walked calmly up, heedless of the stares and the whispers and the gestures. He walked right up to _Charles_, and lowered his hood, showing his warpaint to the enemy. "You think me a savage animal," he said calmly. "But you are not even that, you are an _atenenyarhu_."

_Charles Lee_ stared in absolute shock, but those around him were not so dumbstruck. Two men, guards, darted up and leveled their pistols at Ratonhnhaké:ton's head. Their threat of violence meant nothing. He was a body of stillness, calmness, nothing could disturb him. Either he would die, or _Charles Lee _would. It was a simple as that. Nothing else mattered.

The two combatants stared at each other for a long time. _Charles'_ face was even now filled with contempt, he had not changed since Ratonhnhaké:ton was a child, the only addition to the contempt was hate. Personal, intense, ugly _hate_. The indifference was long gone, _Charles Lee_ knew who Ratonhnhaké:ton was now, knew _what_ he was: the _atenenyarhu's_ death, and he hated Ratonhnhaké:ton just as intensely as Ratonhnhaké:ton hated _him_. They were at last the same. All Ratonhnhaké:ton's life, _Charles Lee_ had looked down on him, as a Templar, as an _Atenenyarhu_. The young native was so beneath the Stone Coat's notice as to be literally forgotten, even after killing his mother. Their various meetings as an adult he was little more than a curiosity, a native in a sea of white men, hardly worth any notice. Even in New York, locked in the prison, when the demon had finally realized who and what Ratonhnhaké:ton was, still he was beneath him. Now, after the death Haytham Kenway, _now_ _Charles_ hated him with the same passion, the same obsession, the same desperation. _Charles Lee_ was a dark mirror of Ratonhnhaké:ton. The thought was equal parts chilling and enlightening.

If _Charles Lee_ looked like this while contemplating Ratonhnhaké:ton, did the native, too, look like this when speaking of the Stone Coat? He had, the reason he could recognize the combined look of hatred and obsession and thirst for blood was because he had so often seen it on himself. For years he thought it the look of righteous justice, but now he knew the truth.

At last he saw what Achilles saw, and objectively he could understand the worry the Old Man held for so many years. Did he burn this brightly with the dark energy the demon did? What did that say about him?

He could not finish his thought, however; a nod from _Charles_ made one of the guards flip his pistol and slam it into the _Hirokoa's_ knees, forcing him to the ground. Fists grabbed his arms and shoulders, holding him in place. All of it was immaterial. He merely looked up, eyes calm and perfectly still. He watched as _Charles_ became more and more intense in his gaze, searching for something that no longer existed, searching for the thing that had given him power for so many years. He searched for fear.

But it had died with Haytham Kenway. His worst fear had already been realized: losing his chance with his _raké:ni_. Nothing was left after that. Nothing but _killing Charles Lee_. Did the demon think similarly?

_Charles_ could no longer hold his hatred, a brutal fist appeared and bounced heavily across Ratonhnhaké:ton's temple, snapping his head to the side and sending stars to explode across his vision. Pain rocked his head, his eyes blurred, but slowly he managed to turn his head and look calmly at his enemy.

"Get him on his feet," _Charles_ growled, twisted and ugly. "He will wait. He will watch. And then - when he's seen all his life's work brought to ruin... Only then will I allow him to die. Take him away."

He made a show of being dragged, he did not want to give away the purpose of this blatant display of himself, but he knew that _Charles Lee_ would not be rational enough to think about what he had just witnessed. He had seen in _Charles_ what he lived with every day, and he knew that nothing would stop the demon from ending the service and come running to wherever Ratonhnhaké:ton was being taken, running to inflict hurt after hurt and pain after pain to make up for what _Charles_ felt he had suffered. _Charles_ was now just as desperate and fixated, and the _Hirokoa_, through that dark mirror, knew exactly how to exploit that.

They moved up the street, the river on their right, as they moved north. If he was taken to a ship that would be disastrous, there would be no way to rescue him and kill the Templars all in one swoop no matter how fast the _Aquila_ was, and he eyed the ships one by one as they moved passed, tense but not anxious. It was a half hour walk before turning onto a narrow cobblestone street filled with residential homes. Elfreth's Alley was founded in 1702 and houses had existed since 1728, mostly tradesmen like shipwrights and silver smiths and glassblowers. The houses were all small, build next to each other so completely there was no space to pass between houses, indeed no space at all. The buildings were all three stories, access to root cellars out front instead of in back, and it was into one of the root cellars that he went, shoved mercilessly down the steps before the guards slammed the doors closed, followed by the sounds of bolting. He was locked into place.

Or so they thought.

They had stripped him of his weapons of course, ripped away his bow and his two pistols and his _tamahaac_, they even pulled at his hidden blade, but they had not searched him thoroughly. Reaching into the red fabric of his sash and running his thumb along the leather belt that held it in place, he found the lock picks he kept on his person and pulled them out. His moccasins made no noise on the soft earth of the cellar and he moved to the entrance. The wooden door was firm, secure, but not without fifty odd years of wear, and it was not long before he found a loose seam and worked his tools in. He found the hinge of the cellar door, and he began his work. If this was to be a long imprisonment, then he wanted to use his time economically; he did not know how long he would be healthy enough to do this and it was better to get the harder work done first.

As he did so he thought of that face of hatred. Of _Charles Lee_, and his mind spun back to the stark realization that they were now the same. The demon had finally sunk down to Ratonhnhaké:ton's level, full of desperate anger and hatred and intense desire to destroy the young native. Haytham Kenway, it seemed, was as to _Charles_ as his _ista_ was to him. Their deaths had left them irrevocably damaged, and all that was left was to kill one another. The demon had eaten everything dear to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and now... he had eaten the one thing dear to the demon: Haytham.

Was that why so many villages thought of the Twins, Hahgwehdiyu and Hahgwehdeatgah, not as the Good Twin and Evil Twin, but rather the two faces of humanity? Did the other tribes know something he did not?

Ah, but Achilles had been telling him that for years. The Old Man was right, even now, after his death. For a brief moment Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled.

The hate would never go away. After almost twenty years of blame and personification and imagination, _Charles Lee_ would never be anything but the _Atenenyarhu_ that ate all the good parts of his life. But now, at last, Ratonhnhaké:ton understood that his own hate could turn him into the very thing he so desperately hated: a Stone Coat. His irrational need to kill _Lee_, kill anything that stood in his way, kill anything he perceived as even _slightly_ like the Stone Coat, and made him exactly what _Charles_ was: judgmental, condescending, unbending. He had all the qualities to turn into a Stone Coat – just as Big Dave did as he ran away from his problems. It was a choice to eat those around them, and for a long time Ratonhnhaké:ton had made that decision without realizing the danger he was putting himself in.

That would change.

He could not kill _Charles_ out of hate, or desperation, or even with the intention of kill or be killed. He had to kill the demon simply because it was necessary, because he would eat everyone and everything around him. Words he had used over and over to justify his hatred and his bloodthirsty need for vengeance suddenly became real in his own mind, and he slowed for a moment as he saw, truly _saw_, the difference of the two points of view.

"I am sorry," he said softly, "that it took me so long to realize what you saw when we first met."

… Had the situations been reversed, he would have refused to train himself as well.

The eerie calm he had felt since the night before shifted; it was no longer the calm of a man content to die, but the calm of one who _understood_. He was now a Master Assassin, an _Hirokoa'kó:wa_, if such a merger of Algonquian and Haudenosaunee words could exist. He was one who understood the Creed: Nothing is true and everything is permitted. Demons could be men and men could be demons, good people with good intentions could become evil, and evil people could still be – at least partially – good. Stone Coats were not cannibals in the literal sense but in the metaphoric sense, it was an analogy to better understand the ways of _men_, a story of old to teach children how not to be. Kanen'tó:kon had been right, all those years ago. It was all just stories, morals, just as the fairy tales he had learned of the settler culture.

Fear and anxiety would never bother him again after this. The Templars held no more power over them, because he _understood_ them on a level he never had before. For the first time in his life he saw the demon as a man, an actual, real, _man_. A man could be manipulated, and the dark mirror of what Ratonhnhaké:ton might have been was all he needed to know how.

He worked for some time, perhaps an hour, before the sounds of a pack of dogs alerted his eagle, and he moved to the center of the cellar, sitting down cross-legged, hands resting lightly on his knees. He knew the Stone Coat's mind now, and he would push every button that was available, keep _Charles'_ attention on the young native instead of outside, where his _Hirokoa_ were most likely watching the house, deciding on a course of action. He leveled his eyes on the cellar door, and watched as _Charles_ came down to see his prey waiting calmly for what was to come. The stillness unnerved him, a twitch of the eyes gave him away, and deep in his mind Ratonhnhaké:ton took dark pleasure at seeing he had such an effect on the man.

_Charles_ recovered, however, and walked with heavy boots to the native, three dogs with him. Kneeling down, he pulled out a necklace under his cravat. Kanien'kehá:ka markings grabbed his eye. This was the amulet Haytham Kenway had retrieved, the thing that had sparked his journey here and all the terrible events that followed. This was the origin of all of Ratonhnhaké:ton's pain.

"He sent me away..." _Charles_ said, his voice soft, bereaved. "That day at Fort George. He feared for my safety. I should have stayed. He said there was no danger."

The confession of pain did not move the _Hirokoa_. He had already realized how similar they were, and there was no surprise in those words. Nothing this person could say would sway him. All that was left was to correct him. "He was wrong," he said. Calmly.

_Charles_ glared, struggling to contain his emotions, breathing audibly through his nose as his slovenly face struggled to remain calm. It failed of course, there was a vein at his temple that became more visible, and hatred bled into every feature. Stone blue eyes glared, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could see what he saw when he was six, what had convinced him that this man was an _atenenyarhu_. What he had felt for almost twenty years. What he had almost _become_.

"I will kill you, Connor," the man said, a low growl of a promise. "This, I swear. Not here, though. Not today," he added, glancing at the guards that had followed him into the cellar, aware of the audience he had. "No... First - first I'll destroy all you hold dear." The words were water, washing over the _Hirokoa_ as if they were nothing. _Charles Lee _had no more power over him, could do and say nothing that would ever put him in power, he was impotent with regards to the native. "I'll burn that homestead of yours to the ground - and roast the severed heads of your precious 'founding fathers' in its flames. And when I've finished with them, all the rest will burn as well. Your merry band of Assassins. The human _refuse_ that lives on your land. Your village and its people. All of it – gone!" It was the same ugliness as all those years ago, the same bigoted hatred. Only, Ratonhnhaké:ton was not a child anymore, nor was he a naive youth, nor was he a misguided son. He was an _Hirokoa_, and he knew the value of these ugly threats, and he knew the weight of his own experience. Oh, the threats were real enough, promises that _Charles_ would carry out with gleeful pleasure, but the man had neglected, ignored, or most likely did not value one critical fact: Ratonhnhaké:ton was an Assassin. He answered with the truth.

"You can try, _Charles,_" he said calmly. "But as with all your schemes, this too will end in failure."

It was not the answer the enemy expected, and the intense hatred at last left for anger, and the beating began. Punches, kicks, brutal orders to the dogs, all fell upon the young native for the next twenty minutes. When it was over, blood flowed freely from his mouth, his vision was more black stars than actual sight, bite marks littered his body, and his core was aching beyond reasonable belief.

Spent, _Charles_ pulled out a handkerchief to ostensibly clean the blood of his soaked knuckles, dull the sweat on his brow in the coolness of the cellar. He spat when he was finished, the ugly wet drop landing on the young native's bloody cheek. "Enjoy the reprieve," _Charles_ said in a low voice. "Spend your time thinking about all the people I'm going to destroy. All because you killed the man who gave you life. Was it worth it? Did you enjoy killing your father? Did you savor knowing how it would hurt me?"

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered, his voice watery and thin. "I enjoyed nothing about it. I take no pleasure in my work. I only do what is necessary."

"Necessary? _Necessary_?" the demon growled, turning around. "He was trying to save you!"

"He was trying to kill me," the _Hirokoa_ replied. Rolling to his back, he lifted his head to gaze his unearthly calmness to his enemy. "His hands were on my throat, squeezing the life out of me." He leveled his cool eyes, maintaining perfect stillness even after his most recent ordeal, his gaze unnerving to the Stone Coat. "If he would kill me, his blood, so easily, what would he do of you, his spiritual son?"

The question bored into the _Atenenyarhu's_ mind, his face twisting into several dark emotions, disturbed by what he heard. Good. Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed his point: "Is Shay Cormac still alive? Or did Haytham plot his demise as well?"

The root cellar door slammed closed with more force than strictly necessary.

The night was spent tending his injuries as best he could, waiting for nausea to pass, gathering strength, until he found his way to the cellar door and began to work again. As he had expected, it was much harder; his focus wavered in an out after so many blows to his head, it was hard to lift his arm for the protests of his ribs, but he steadfastly ignored the pain as he did his work, widening the seam and picking apart splinters as he did so. The next morning by contrast had him sitting in the middle of the cellar again, waiting for the inevitable next visit. Food came, which surprised him – he thought he would be starved to death, but apparently _Charles Lee_ wanted him to live as long as possible – and in the afternoon the Templar came again. There were no dogs this time; he was flanked by two other guards.

"Do you find me so dangerous?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked in a level voice.

The Templar looked down on the native. "I could snap your neck, you know," he said, spite and contempt in his voice. "A little pressure and _pop_! The sad little flame of your life extinguished. You are a _nothing_. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like _animals_, oblivious to the true ways of the world. The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy. But not you, it seems. No... You cling desperately to your ways. Too ignorant to know your folly."

"Did you tell your Kanien'kehá:ka wife that when you married her?" the native asked. "Or the twins she gave birth to? Are they nothing as well? Or did Ounewaterika leave his family to fend for themselves as he returned to Europe to fight other people’s wars?"

"Is that word supposed to mean something to me?"

"It is your name, is it not? Boiling Water?"

"You think me a savage piece of scum like you because one of your pitiful chiefs offered me his daughter as a prize? What does it say about your people that a woman was sold to me?"

"Or, perhaps," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "You wanted to know why Father was so interested in Mother, you wanted to understand why a man you valued so greatly could 'lower' himself to loving a woman like Kaniehtí:io."

"_Never_ speak that bitch's name."

Ratonhnhaké:ton offered a soft smile. "You seem to think you are in control of this situation. You are not. Kaniehtí:io was a woman of such integrity that even a man as emotionally aloof as Haytham Kenway could be swayed by her and reminded of what _living_ was like. He thought of her fondly, did you know that?"

"Shut up."

"He wrote of her often in his journals, of her strong spirit and independent mind. The women of my people are valued; they are the Clan Mothers, who train and choose the Chiefs, theirs is the clan that inherits the son. Did you appreciate that heritage when you took your wife and became a Bear, as Haytham did when he loved my Mother?"

"_Silence!_" The kick to his head was brutal and sent him sprawling to the floor. "_You are an animal!_ You and all those savage beasts that live in that valley, running naked through the woods and living in collected sticks and branches! You have no civilization, no culture, nothing that brings any merit to the world! You value inconsequential things like beads and forests and have no appreciation for _civilized_ life!"

The beating that followed was filled with similar epitaphs, slurs and ugly degradations, leaving a bloody mess on the floor as Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled to stay conscious. The guards looked on impassively, uncaring of the violence they were witnessing. When the Templar left the Assassin only then allowed himself to pass out and recover his strength. One arm was broken, he could feel that, and his vision swam with such throbbing pain that thought was slow to almost impossible. His ribs were sore but still intact – he knew that would not last long if this kept up – and he knew lying in his own blood would only bring sickness. Jamie would have a hard time after all of this, and he felt regret that he could not break out now and kill _Charles Lee_; he had to wait until he had word that all the others were dead, that the assault was successful.

He did wake up in the night, head fuzzy. He thought he saw people: the Old Man, Haytham, _Ista_.

"_You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must be brave,_" his mother was saying, kneeling down and reaching out to touch his forehead. "_You will think yourself alone, but know that I will be at your side. Always and forever. Ratonhnhaké:ton... I love you._"

Those had been her last words. Even as she was dying she had offered him comfort, solace. Achilles looked on, leaning on his cane as he always did, face inscrutable as it always was.

"_I have been a man dead for decades,_" the Old Man said._ "Every year I waited for my bones to understand, and yet now you have breathed life into me, made me see outside myself for the first time in years. My gratitude towards you will be unending, even in the next life._"

That had been in his letter, the words alive as if he had spoken them aloud. The gratitude gave him strength even as his mother gave him solace. Bleary eyes looked to his father, wondering what he would say.

"_You have shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities._"

That was when he knew this was a dream. Haytham Kenway would never be so kind. Even though those were his last words, the context in it had been one last fit of spite. He turned his head away, eyes landing on the cellar door. He took several slow – ragged, but deep – breaths and managed to get himself on his knees. He crawled to the cellar door, half sitting on the steps, and wiggled his good arm into the weak seam, working until his fingers were bloody. He remembered thinking he saw a shaft of light, a sign that he was progressing, but his next clear memory was of _Charles Lee_ standing over him, omnipresent dogs at his side, sniffing.

"Why do you persist...?" _Charles_ asked. "You put us down. We rise again. You end one plot – we forge another. You try so hard... But it always ends the same. Those who know you think you mad and this is why," he gestured to Ratonhnhaké:ton and his ruined body, the blood splattered on the dirt floor, and the clear, unwaveringly calm eyes. "Even those men you sought to save have turned their backs on you. Yet you fight. You resist. Why?"

… Why...?

… _Why_?

He took a deep, labored breath, sucking in air. "Because no one else will...!" he grunted, licking his lips and spitting up into the air. The last time he had expectorated had been when he was six, and there was a curious echo in his mind as he did it again, and watched as _Charles,_ too, remembered that day.

Something was produced in the Templar's hands, and with a viscous downward swing pain exploded into Ratonhnhaké:ton's side as something penetrated and penetrated _deep_. He had no hope of containing his roar of pain, hands instinctively going to protect the injury and curl away from the source of pain. Tears leaked out of his eyes and his breathing tripled in speed to compensate for the assault on his body. His hands quickly soaked in blood, and he knew little else as his world became consumed with pain, his body jerking this way and that.

Eventually, the rest of the world bled into his senses. He felt a cool hand on his bitten cheek, and slowly he opened his eyes to see what the new sensation was.

Red Feather was there. Another dream?

The face was blurry, and it turned to say something to someone Ratonhnhaké:ton could not see. Another face entered his vision, dark skin. Joseph...?

And then Duncan was there, making a sign of his faith and leaning in close, his narrow face coming slowly into better focus.

"Can ye hear me, Connor?" His voice was distance, underwater, but the young native could hazily nod.

"We did it," Duncan said in slow, clear tones. "_Ye_ did it. All the Templars are dead, poisoned, save for the grandmaster. Clipper's trackin' him right now with Dobby, the rest of us are here finishing the job."

The others were dead...? Nothing was left...?

No.

"We must... kill... _Charles Lee_..."

Duncan smiled, wan and sad, before nodding his head. "I figured ye' say that. Come on, let's get ye on yer feet."

It was less than a half mile from the root cellar to the City Tavern, just exit Elfreth's Alley onto Second Street and go south, perhaps a ten mile walk. The first challenge was getting on his feet, the change in altitude nearly made him lose consciousness; he leaned heavily on the broad shoulders of Jacob, heard incoherent noises that must have been foreign curses buzzing through his ears before he was able to center himself. He looked down to the bloody mess of his side and was ironically reminded of a year ago when he was shot, blood pouring out of him then as well. What had the Templar used to strike him to cause such a wound? He saw splinters of wood – a plank? He saw the cellar door, saw his loose seam had resulted in a ripped and missing board. _Charles_ had seen his work and sought revenge. Somehow, he was not surprised.

The next challenge was the steps up onto the alley – he was more carried than anything else – but he finally made it and managed to keep his feet under him. He could hardly see straight. The midday light exposed the ordeal he had been through, bloody bite marks and tears all along his coat and leggings, the long unhealthy streak of red staining his side, and the raw sensation of injured skin on his face, strips of his finely crafted braids hanging loose along the back of his head. Was the string of Achilles' cuff still there? He could not tell, could not lift his broken arm to check. Jacob held him on one side, Stephane on the other, as Red Feather and Joseph dashed ahead to pass word, and Anne and William acted as flanks, Jamie taking point as the man who knew the city, and Duncan bringing up the rear.

Few people were in the alley, off to work in their smithies and shops. Several children, orphans, stared, but dared not approach. They turned left at the end of the alley, onto Second Street, and slowly Ratonhnhaké:ton began to adjust to the motions of walking. His legs were still about him, not broken, and he could handle just enough of his weight that he did not have to lean _too_ heavily on Jacob and Stephane. Both men were muttering in their native languages, dark looks on their faces as their grips shifted from gentle to painful, depending on what injury they were touching. Anne and William swept their gazes everywhere, silently daring anyone to approach them as they proceeded down the street. Red Feather eventually came back, eyes wide and saying something quickly to Jamie and then Duncan, words too far away for Ratonhnhaké:ton's underwater hearing to discern.

Most of his focus was on staying conscious, focusing on _Charles Lee_ and his imminent end. He tried to feel something: satisfaction, victory, relief, even anticipation. All he felt was empty. He had battled against this man for over half of his life, had plotted and planned and ran desperately from one target to the next, killing his way to this moment, and now that it was at hand all he felt was cold emptiness. There was no weight to this death, it was but one in a long string of murders he had committed, and there would be a long string more before he was done. It would never end, eternal wars like this could not simply be stopped by conversation and offerings of peace; he understood that now. Haytham had taught him well, that night.

He did not know how long they walked, but eventually the City Tavern appeared on his right, and he realized this was where he and the others had met, before the war paint, before he had begun this assault. The irony was slow to seep into his head, but Clipper and Dobbie where there, and everyone was assembled.

The _Hirokoa _might think him mad, but they all of them still stood by him. That meant the world to him, and he bowed his head.

"_Niá:wen'kó:wa,_" he murmured in gratitude.

They moved laboriously up the steps of the tavern and inside. It was midafternoon, few people were about and giving them relative privacy.

_Charles Lee_ sat in a shadowed corner, back to the wall, and watched the approach of the entire guild of Assassins. He was pale, eyes fever-bright, sweaty and listless. Didn't someone say something about poison? It didn't matter.

With great effort, he removed himself from his supports, taking a chair and dragging it over and sitting by _Charles_. He set a knife on the table, blinked as he realized it was Achilles' knife, the eagle handle and the serrated edge, that he had used to cut his hair. It was fitting. His brothers and sisters fanned out behind him, blocking them from the view of the tavern, giving them privacy to the two beleaguered combatants. _Charles,_ looking down up to know, hazily lifted his head to witness the approach, stone blue eyes taking in the unbridled show of force.

The pair shared a long look. No words were spoken.

None were necessary.

_Charles_... no. Charles reached out and dragged over a bottle of spirits, lifting it with a shaky fist and taking a swig. His face bittered with the tastes, nose crinkling as the alcohol flowed down his throat, before offering it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. A celebratory toast, to success and victory.

He took the bottle with his good arm, fingers coated with dried blood, just as shaky as Charles' and took a small sip. The alcohol was exactly as Stephane described, _pisse_, and it tasted utterly foul as he swallowed. Fire burned his throat, setting the hole in his side to spurt even more blood. He glanced down, knowing he was seriously injured, knowing he did not have much longer. Charles nodded his head, acknowledging the damage he had done, acknowledging the price Ratonhnhaké:ton had paid.

The price they had _both_ paid.

There was nothing left after that. The _Hirokoa_ took the knife, shifting his weight, shimmying the chair closer while still favoring his myriad injuries. He reached out and clutched Charles' coat, tugging him slightly forward, closer, to make this easier. Their heads nearly touched, he could feel the fever of the poison, could sense the sickness, witness the lethargy. Charles was already dead, deep in his spirit, and now he sent the body to follow. He adjusted his grip, listened to his eagle, gathered the strength, and he thrust. In the chest, between the ribs, with a twist; as he had been taught since he was a child.

Charles grunted, leaning back, his eyes wide and lost in the pain.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt nothing.

The amulet was still hanging on his neck, bound in simple twine. He reached out and wrapped his shaky fist around it, yanking. The string broke, and Charles collapsed onto the table, nothing more than a body.

And just like that. It was over.

Should he feel something? Relief? Satisfaction? Joy, fulfillment, anything? But there was no emotion, nothing but emptiness. There was nothing left. Nothing but going _home_.

He bent over himself, struggling with finding the strength, and managed to get onto his feet. He made perhaps three steps before the Assassins closed ranks, and he left the body where it lay. No last words, not closure, no final absolution.

Only a body.

He remembered little after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... There isn't all that much to say after that; this chapter mostly speaks for itself. For the second time we chose to rewrite the ending - mostly to make the history make more sense: Charles Lee died "in a tavern in Philadelphia." Not Monmouth, and not after a gloriously epic chase through a burning half-built man o' war - in Boston, no less. Instead, we tried to mirror that epic feel on a much more intimate, personal level. We've never been to Philadelphia, but we tried to pick landmarks that were appropriate.
> 
> And Connor's - Ratonhnhake:ton's - arc is nearly to a close. He finally becomes a Master Assassin, an Hirokoa'ko:wa, and accepts that _Charles Lee_ is but Charles Lee, a man. The roller coaster he has been on for the last thirty chapters has built up exactly to this moment. He's been so obsessed, so convinced, so unbending over this ONE THING, and it's only when he sees the dark reflection of Charles Lee that he truly understands what he was so close to becoming.
> 
> And, as with all revenge stories, the final revenge brings absolutely nothing. Ratonhnhake:ton sacrificed everything on the altar of his vengeance, even his own body and risking his own life, and when it's over all that is left is a body in a table and he once again near death. I think Ratonhnhake:ton comes closer to death than even Ezio in that respect - he has no sense of self-preservation, poor guy.
> 
> Next chapter: Goodbye, Old Man, until it comes time for me to join you - then I will bother you once again.


	31. The End and The Beginning

He thought he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Achilles... With the Old Man there, it was safe to sleep.

* * *

"When will he wake up?"

"When he's able to, bucko. Ye don't go through the soul wound he has without takin' time to sort through it."

* * *

"His arm and ribs are almost much better."

"But he is getting veaker."

"He needs to eat. And as long as he's asleep, he's not eating."

"But ve can hear his shtomach growling."

"That's not waking him."

"Should we be getting Dr. White? I zhink he might be able to help."

"It would take too long to sail there, collect him, and sail him back. This is the hardest point of healing. The waiting."

* * *

"_Raktsí_... won't you wake up soon?"

"Don't worry. He's strong. He'll live. I couldn't stand to lose anyone else."

"Don't rightly know how much longer we c'n stay. I reckon our bureaus'll need us soon enough."

"We're staying as long as it takes."

* * *

"He's getting so thin."

"He hasn't eaten. He needs to wake up soon or he'll waste away."

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, a mess of words filtering through the back of his memories, as he slowly looked around. Though his eyes were open, awareness and processing were slow in starting. He remembered a painful sip of terrible wine and a knife slowly cutting through meat.

It was over.

It was _finally_ over.

He could feel his eyes water as he blinked, and he took in a sharp breath. Now what? What now? Red Feather had asked that question and Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't ever answered. What did he _do_ now? Go back to Kanatahséton? He would not be welcomed there. Back to Rockport, perhaps? But what would he _do_? He had told his brothers and sisters that they would rebuild, get stronger before the Templars could slip into the United States again. But what would his part of that be? For twenty-two years he had been focused on one thing and one thing only, killing Charles. Now it was done and Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know what to _do_.

"Connor! You're awake!"

He turned his head slowly, eyes already feeling heavy. "Jamie?"

"Yes, Connor," the doctor replied, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're safe. You'll be fine."

He could only give a soft nod before falling back asleep.

The next time he awoke, he was less inward and more aware. Connor had initially thought he'd be in the hospital, since that was where Jamie worked and got his information. It made the most sense. But he was instead at an inn. In Germantown, just outside of Philadelphia.

"The hospital would have too many questions and would notice so many visitors," Jamie explained quietly. "We're more removed out here and better able to slip into the shadows if need be."

"Besides," Joseph said with wide, bright grin, "this town gave birth to the abolitionists about a hundred years ago. What better place to stay?"

"And the people here are well?" Connor asked softly. "After the Commander's defeat here?"

"Zhat vas shix years ago," Jacob rumbled quietly. "Zhey have healed vell." The Hessian gave a low chuckle. "And ve have proper food here."

"Bah," Stephane growled. "_La cuisine français est mieux_."

"Anyway," Dobby stepped between the two before Jacob and Stephane could descend into an argument about what food was better, "it's good to see you up and about."

"I am hardly up and about," Connor replied softly, not having the energy to even try and sit up.

"I should think not!" Anne said firmly. "That's a large hole in your stomach. You're not going anywhere until that closes."

Conversation continued to flow around all of them. Connor learned a great deal. While he had been in Charles' tender care, they had indeed hunted down and killed all the Templars at the meeting. Anne and Dobby had actually slipped in as serving girls when Connor had offered himself up, and was getting names and faces and occupations. Joseph and Red Feather had acted as valets hailing down carriages or getting horses and listing addresses. Once a list was compiled, it was quickly split between everyone so that they could finish as fast as possible and get to the important part of rescuing Connor. Clipper and Duncan had trailed Connor and kept a close eye on the home on Elfreth's Alley, observing the comings and goings and providing a few other names to the list.

Poison was the best method of assassination. It was easy to pose as a houseboy or serving girl and poison specific meals or drinks. It also led to a rumor of a fever running through the city, with no hint that it was assassinations felling so many people. A few required getting up close, but Jacob and William and Stephane did that with ease and stole wallets to make it look like a cutpurse was to blame.

Duncan, after Charles was dead and Connor was safe and recuperating, had swiftly drafted letters and sent them out with Faulkner to explain the enormity of what Connor had accomplished. That the United States was free, for now, of all Templar influence. With the Company Man down in Louisiana also dead, thanks to Aveline, six years prior, that made a wide swath of the continent free. It would be weeks before Templars in other parts of the Americas found out, months before the Templars in Europe learned of this and sent agents. The United States was free.

This was not to say that all of their effort was easy. Jamie, as a doctor, was struggling with taking so many lives. He knew it was for a cause he believed in, and after seeing how Connor had been treated, believed that they deserved to die. But killing with his own hands had left him shaken. He preferred his investigations in Philadelphia, keeping track of Congress and who was doing what with power. He was prepared to kill, and would do so in a heartbeat, but it _shook_ him. He needed time to reassure himself, to put away his regrets, at least for a little while. Anne was being helpful in this.

Red Feather was worried and struggling as well. Not that he had killed, but that he didn't _feel_ anything about killing them. Now fifteen years old and having trained for four years, Red Feather was a swiftly growing beansprout and he was fully aware that what they were doing was wrong by society's laws, but was right by their Creed after having witnessed himself the horrors of what a Templar could do. But he didn't feel anything when he had killed so many and he was worried that he didn't.

Joseph, despite his bright smiles about being in Germantown and its abolitionist history, carried his own regrets, since a few of those Charles had gathered had been of African descent. It seemed everyone was struggling with killing so many people in so swift a time and much of what they were dealing with had been swept away with worrying about Connor. Now that he was awake, the worry was coming back.

So Connor talked with them. With nothing to do and unable to even sit up with the hole in his side, he spent long hours talking to all of them, as Achilles had with him. He spoke of his own regrets, how regrets were common with what they did because the ultimate goal was to _not_ kill. Killing was their last resort when other options had failed. Because their purpose was to let the world learn to be better. To teach the world self-improvement. The Templars didn't care if people learned or not, as long as their enlightened few stood above them and controlled them. Owned them.

He spoke with all of them as much as he could before they needed to return to their various bureaus all across the United States. He was the Mentor. Which meant he needed to mentor all of his brothers and sisters as _hirokoa_. Theirs was a difficult life. It was one that had few moments of happiness, and those had to be carved out by hand. The struggle was endless. Even now, they had to plan for unknown Templars sneaking into the United States to start building their strength again. But there were moments where it would be rewarding. Like hearing the Declaration of Independence read out to the people, or watching Rockport come together if someone was in trouble.

But most of all, he spoke of pain and hatred. Of how it existed in all peoples, no matter their color. Of how it could twist a person so thoroughly, they became an _atenenyarhu_.

"Always remember that ours is not to eat those around us. We are to work for what we have, not take it from others. And just as we work hard, we help others who cannot. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

* * *

It had been a year without any major engagements, only small skirmishes and raids and ambushes with the British; no resolution had yet been reached. Washington kept the army together, insisting that they needed to be ready in case this temporary ceasefire ended. So winter quarters were again being set and Connor was looking to spend a very long winter in Germantown, healing and recuperating. December was cold and one by one, the Assassins needed to leave before snows got too deep and passes became impassable. Most went by ship, though Stephane got a wagon and some skids to become a sleigh for when he got farther north to Albany.

Jamie and Anne were the only ones to stay, nursing him back to health. Jamie was gone most days, doing his work in Philadelphia, and Anne disappeared in the evenings to keep up with her contacts. Anne insisted on feeding him as much as she could, both to help him heal and to put more weight on his bones since his time unconscious had left him malnourished and almost emaciated. Jamie kept regularly changing bandages and checking on the hole in his side. ("We're lucky it didn't hit any organs.")

Connor let them, feeling listless and directionless. Charles was dead.

So what now?

And even if he had a course of action in mind, he couldn't do it until he had healed. And that would be months yet. So he went through the motions every day.

It wasn't until late January that Jamie had Connor starting to slowly move around the inn they were staying at. It was amazing how simply being able to get up and go sit by the window to read was liberating. With his newfound motion, he started reading the newssheets again, most of them speaking of the debates in Congress and the committees and subcommittees, along with many speculations about the war and if it was truly over or not. While the news was interesting, and discussing it with Jamie and Anne was enlightening, Connor didn't have the spark of passion he had felt as before when reading about the news in Boston after the Massacre or the Tea Party. He was weary of war. His war with the Templars and Stone Coats had ended. Yet another war still lingered around them, even if there hadn't been any sort of engagement since Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown.

By the end of February, Connor's exercises were walking more regularly, if very stiffly and with tender care as his side was _still_ painful and with a fair-sized hole in it. After being confined to one building for so long, Connor started doing different exercises and training to help build his strength back up again. He had been confined to Germantown long enough. He wanted to get moving, even if he didn't know where to.

In March Washington gave a speech to impatient troops, assuring them that paychecks were coming and to wait a little longer. After over a year without fighting threats of desertions were starting to cause worry, because this time it wasn't about fear of the British, but of want to get back home and with actual _money_ for all their hard work. The inactivity wasn't helping. But March also brought word that France and Spain had made peace with England and that back pay, prisoner exchanges, furloughs, and other such logistics like returning runaway slaves, (Connor let out a long and heavy sigh...) were deep into negotiations.

It was too much. Connor needed to get away.

So he left a note saying that he was heading back home, got a wagon since he knew his side would never handle being in the saddle, and just started riding.

He didn't return to Rockport. Though he expected that that's what others would assume.

Instead, he headed back to Kanatahséton.

His people were free. It had cost him much. It had cost him his best friend, his place among his people, so very much. He wished to visit with Oiá:ner, listen to her wisdom. None may welcome him back, but she would. And he desperately needed her guidance now. Charles Lee was defeated. Iottsitíson's quest was complete. What was he to do?

That question had been plaguing him for the past three hundred miles. His mission had been divine in origin, though earthly in practice. Now that it was done, what came next? He was the Mentor of the Assassins of the United States. That still bore responsibilities and commitments. But would Iottsitíson send them on their next journey? Would she show the next enemy to face? Was there a new enemy?

He eased his horse over the crest of a hill, the wagon having long since been abandoned since it couldn't take the rough terrain or the snow drifts that were still several feet deep. His side ached and he had to stop riding every hour for rest and to make sure he wasn't bleeding again. He slid off the horse to a barren rock that had no traces of snow, despite the patches that surrounded it. He sat heavily on the rock and just lay back down, grunting out a breath before easing himself into stillness to rest. Almost, he was almost there! He could almost smell the cookfires.

How would he approach? He was not particularly welcomed, he would admit that, so how could he go in and visit Oiá:ner? Almost all had seen him in his settler clothes, knew to look for the white hood or white coat. Should he ride in in more traditional clothes? But that would mean exposing his side and he did not wish to show weakness after he had left on such bad terms after both Kanen'tó:kon and the horrible Sullivan expedition. True, he wished forgiveness, but he would not seek it out of pity. Perhaps he should wait for nightfall? But that would be skulking about the village that had been home for over a decade.

Perhaps he was over thinking this. All he really needed to do was ride in and see how things would be from there. Nothing else mattered.

He was home.

_Finally_, he was home.

After his side was no longer burning, he carefully climbed into the saddle, disliking how even that caused him great pain, and sat for a few minutes to get his pain back under control. Easing the horse forward at a walk, he rode down to the village, trying to glance through the thick oaks and maples and pines to see the village wall. Something seemed strange. It was... quiet. While cities would bustle with noise making for a hard comparison, every town and village produced sound. Even sleepy little hamlets that he had ridden through had people crossing the green to greet someone, or a market, or something going on. Even his village, arguably quieter than most settler towns, produced sound. Children running around, screaming and laughing, villagers talking, songs of healing. But he heard nothing.

Nothing.

A dark unsettled feeling twisted his stomach.

Riding in, it was easy to see that the village had been abandoned. None remained. And he remembered that Oiá:ner had mentioned that there had been talk of moving. But he hadn't thought it possible.

_Ià... ià..._

He slid off the horse with some difficulty, tied the reigns loosely, and limped forward.

This _couldn't_ be... After everything he'd done. He'd accomplished his mission! They were finally free! Finally safe! So why did they flee?

His insides twisted again, curling upon themselves, as he wandered aimlessly once more. He had been aimless already for so long... Since Charles had died... What was he to do now? He didn't even have Kanatahséton to return to anymore...

What would he _do_?

As he neared the river, he smelled smoke. A cookfire. He turned and headed that way, not thinking it wise to rush given the burning fire in his side. In one of the longhouses, he found a man by a fire, a rabbit roasting, humming a soft drinking tune.

The man looked up over his thick unruly beard. "Hello, I reckon," he greeted easily with a smile. "If you're hungry, I've extra." Not a member of the Confederacy, not a member of the village, not a native. It was a white man, buckskins, beaver cap. A _settler_. _In his home_.

His insides twisted even more. "No thank you..." he said, carefully holding his side as he sat on a log across from the traveler. He looked around, ghosts of memories of how full of life the longhouse was drifting across his vision, of clanmothers herding the children, of chiefs meeting and talking, of his mother, of himself, of Kanen'tó:kon. Now all empty. "Where is everyone?"

"Gone west," the traveler replied, tending to the rabbit. "Been a while since they left. Seems some fellow from New York was granted the land by Congress."

His insides twisted even further and he wondered if he could hold down the food he had eaten earlier.

"_Nahò:ten_?" he whispered. "_What_?"

The traveler nodded. "Seein' it happen more and more. Reckon it'll just keep happenin'. Government _says_ they don't take land that's already owned, but, uh..." he looked around.

He looked down, clutching at his side. "How could this have happened?"

"We're on our own now," the traveler said, turning the rabbit again. "No more Merry English parts and labor. Which means we gotta go at it ourselves. Gotta pay for it too." He pulled the rabbit from the fire and smelled it before setting it aside to cool. "Sellin' land is quick and easy and not quite so nasty as taxes," he said sagely. "And since some say they're what started the whole war, ain't no rush to bring 'em back, I reckon." He stoked the fire. "Clever men, these new leaders of ours. They know not to push it just yet. Too soon for taxes. Too... British."

He rubbed at his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. "Thank you," he said softly. Then he settled in for the night. He would need the rest. In the morning he would look for clues on where his people had gone. Seek them out. Join them. Try and... do something.

Faintly, as he fell asleep, he heard the traveler murmur, "Be safe..."

The following morning he awoke to find himself alone, the fire cold as if it had never been lit the night before. Had it been a dream? A vision? The traveler _had_ seemed awfully knowledgeable for someone out wandering the woods. But what if it was just a man who was seeking the peace and solitude of the forest? The previous night had been so surreal...

Shaking his head, he stood. He needed to see if there was any indication of where his people went. As he walked through the longhouse, looking at all the empty shelves, he found one strange thing. A single wooden box, crisp edges like what Lance or even Terry and Godfrey could build, instead of the logs and sticks and straw his own people would use. With some pain, he leaned down and opened it to find the artifact, the glass ball that had given him his vision.

But... why would they leave this behind?

It was their guide, their link to Iottsitíson, to the Sky Goddess herself. Why leave behind something so important? Reaching out, he pulled up the glass sphere, watching the etched patterns start to glow gold as they had so many years ago. The longhouse faded away, rays of golden light hovering and drifting in the air. Pulses of gold spreading out from each footstep he made as he stumbled back in surprise to see such a vision again. But unlike before, he was not as an eagle, a representation of his spirit. Instead, he just stood there, holding the sphere, looking through darkness as bits of golden light eased along in random patterns.

"_Ah, long have we waited for your return_," Iottsitíson greeted from the darkness. "_You have done as we asked. You have succeeded._"

Succeeded? He most certainly had not! "No!" he called out to the darkness. "I have _failed_! My people are _gone_! Chased out by those who I thought would protect them."

He had lost so many...

The gold at his feet intensified, spreading, but still could not break through the darkness.

"_It is a trade_," Iottsitíson explained. "_A sacrifice. And not in vain._"

What was the Sky Woman seeing that he could not? What did she see that made this acceptable?

And then a woman was there. Paler than any white man, hair braided as his people would, cloaked in white purer than snow or clouds. "_For you have found it._"

A glow came from something other than the glass sphere and he looked down to the pendent he had taken from Charles, saw its jade color emanating with soft light. "This?"

The Sky Woman nodded. "_Now you _must_ hide it. Where none shall think to look. And then, in time, what once was _shall_ be again_."

What was she saying? That his people would be restored? Back to their lands and homes? But in time? How long was that to a spirit who was ageless and been there since the beginning? What did all this mean?

"I do not understand."

"_Nor need you_," Iottsitíson replied gently. "_Only do as we ask. _Then_, you may do as you wish._"

But he wished for his people... he wished for Achilles... he wished for... so much...

"But what of my people?"

Iottsitíson was looking through him, to something he couldn't see. "_You have saved this place. As was your people's purpose. And that matters most._"

Saved from the Templars perhaps. But not the white man. "It is not enough!"

"_It will never be enough_." The Sky Woman looked to him again. "_You strive for that which does not exist._"

Freedom for all? Equality for all? Justice for all? It might not exist, but who was to say that it wouldn't? Who was to say that he shouldn't fight for that! Because it was _worth_ it!

"_Still,_" Iottsitíson turned, looking out to something he could not see, "_you have made a difference. And you will do so again._" She glanced back to him. "_Remember, you must hide the amulet where none might find it._"

The darkness faded, leaving him once more in the dawn of the day, the glass sphere dissolving in his hand until it was mere dust that blew away on the wind.

He stared at the rising sun.

Such a contrast. When Iottsitíson had first spoken to him, he felt that he had found his purpose. That he at last had direction after years of anxiety and fear. Now that he had conquered his anxiety, mastered stillness, now that he was grown, his meeting with Iottsitíson was... unsatisfactory. Hide the pendent? That was his next mission? Was his work for the Sky Woman truly done?

He was left with more questions than answers.

And he still did not know what to do.

But there was one thing.

He needed to return to Rockport.

* * *

It was on the ride back, the long three-hundred-forty mile ride through the late spring rains, that he realized the truth of Sky Woman's words.

"_Only do as we ask. Then, you may do as you wish._"

Since he was thirteen years old, Ratonhnhaké:ton had been driven by a simple purpose: protect his people. His objective had been given to him by the Sky Woman herself, Iottsitíson, and he performed his duties gladly in spite of the pain he suffered continually for it. Now he was without purpose, he had no duty of the Spirits to fulfill, and he was left directionless. Red Feather had not realized the depth of his question last year: what now? What could he do without purpose? Direction? He was free to do as he wished, that was what Iottsitíson had said, but now that he had his freedom he was lost as to what to do.

"_Order. Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom... The Templars seek to remove those sources of pain... a New World will be born, and it will have Order, Purpose, Direction. Freedom must be stamped out, else those deadly sins resurface and destroy the world._"

Haytham... had been right. Order, purpose, and direction did have their place in the lives of humanity. Ratonhnhaké:ton had not realized how driven his life was with purpose, had not realized that all of his own talk of freedom had been moot, even hypocritical in light of the fact that he, too, was bound by the very things he had spurned of his father. And it was not just him. Now free from British control, what was this new country doing? Selling off land to make money, regardless of the heritage and the people who lived on it. Was that any better than _taxes_? Any less tyrannical?

He rode into the village in the dead of night. His side was hurting him, but he had pushed passed sundown to get to the manor. He rode through the valley, seeing sleepy wisps of smoke in the moonlight, signs of life. He stabled the mare and moved into the house, shrugging off his off-white coat slowly and collapsing into a heap on a bed. It was not until the next morning that he realized in his haze he had chosen Achilles' bed. Pain prickled along his already worn down heart, and he moved outside in the dawn hours to the graves, wondering if his throat had at last been cleared. He looked out to the cove, listening to the waves, sitting in the dewy grass and half-imagining being on the _Aquila_, rocking with the sea and the world empty of everything but shades of blue.

Like the stone blue eyes of Charles Lee.

All that pain, all that heartache, all that suffering. For nothing.

"_Ista_," he said softly, "_Raké:ni_. I am sorry. I have failed you both." He looked to the trees, the vision of his mother filling his face, her scent and eyes. "I made a promise to protect our people," he explained, "I thought… I thought I was fighting _atenenyarhu_. I thought Iottsitíson tasked me with fighting evil and saving our village, our heritage, our culture. I thought if I could stop the Templars, if I could keep the revolution free from their influence, that those I supported would do what was right. I thought I had found allies who understood my battle, who joined with me, who would respect my goals and do the right thing. They did, I suppose, do what was right—what was right for them."

Sam Adams used Ratonhnhaké:ton's culture to further his goals with the Tea Party. He filled a young impressionable native's mind with ideals and principals even while he ignored following them, avoided harder issues like slavery or the treatment of the natives. He did what was right for his own purposes, severing the Colonies from England, and when his life's work had been achieved, instead of staying with the Congress and running the country, he went back to his life in Massachusetts.

Commander Washington had used Connor in missions, benefited from his hard work and his warnings, but he did not even try to understand the native's _needs_. He was only interested in winning the war, and damn the people he hurt in the meantime – his ignorance over Charles Lee nearly got him killed – twice, and he refused to show sympathy to Ratonhnhaké:ton's people or the slaves he owned or the problems his indecision cost him. The Commander never once asked after his trials in New York, nor questioned what happened when he had left Valley Forge so quickly – to inevitably kill Kanen'tó:kon, his best friend. Instead, he willfully forgot the native's motivations and ordered the Sullivan Expedition to _decimate_ his people and summoned him to deal with the traitor Benedict Arnold, and rewarded him with a piece of purple cloth as if that signified... _anything_.

Tallmadge had no qualms of calling on his Assassin heritage if it benefited his mission as head of the Culper Ring.

Lafayette, likable enough and as close to a friend and contemporary as Ratonhnhaké:ton had in the army, gleefully hired Oneida to fight in the war and never bothered to understand his heritage and culture.

The Continental Congress, spouting principals in their Declaration of Independence, now horded their power by _selling land that was not theirs_. People were still bought and sold as property for the sole purpose to save _money_, and native peoples everywhere were brutalized and shoved viciously off their land out of greed, all while their cities and culture killed each other with such casual frequency that it was considered normal, and the peace of Ratonhnhaké:ton's home an anomaly.

… Haytham would be proud to know these thoughts. He knew that after reading the journals, after knowing the Templar's mind as he hadn't when still alive.

"As for you, Father," he said, watching the trees sway in the breeze, smelling the pollen in the air, "I thought I might unite us, that we would forget the past and forge a better future. In time, I believed you could be made to see the world as I did—to understand. I believed you would come to know that principle could win out, that there was still hope in the world, that people could change and that there was no need to feel as defeated as you did. But it was just a dream. This, too, I should have known."

Everything welled up in him at that moment, as the sun peeked over the ocean, the morning greeting him with a reverent tapestry of color: pink, purple, gold and red. It was beautiful, serene, everything that he did not feel. If Haytham was right about purpose and direction, if he was right about freedom without a goal, what else was he right about? What other things did his father preach that had an edge of rightness about them?

"Were we not meant to live in peace, then?" he asked, his voice rising with the desperation in his heart. "Is that it? Are we born to argue? To fight? So many voices—each demanding something else? Will a consensus never be reached, will they constantly push for only themselves, will they never see the needs of those around them?" He sighed, weighed down by his burdens, by his realizations. So long he had fought, so long he had pushed, and so much he had _been_ through: the Boston Massacre, Lexington and Concord, abuse in prison and nearly being hung, Kanen'tó:kon, Fort George, even now, his captivity in Philadelphia. The loss: _Ista_, Achilles, Nora, Haytham... so much had been done to him, and all – he thought – so that his people might be safe, so that his allies could assist him.

And now it was all twisted.

"It has been hard at times," he confessed, morning birds beginning to sing, "but never harder than today. To see all I worked for perverted, discarded, you would say I have described the whole of history, Father." Even Iottsitíson, the Spirit who had sent him on this quest, now revealed that it was not as he had thought. He was tasked not with saving his people, but just retrieving a simple trinket, an amulet that required so much blood to be spilt and now just... hidden away. Nothing he knew was true. Nothing...

"Are you smiling, then?" he asked, looking up to the bluing sky, the wisps of clouds. Would Haytham find this amusing, grinning with pride at his broken world? Laughing at his despair? "Hoping I might speak the words you longed to hear? To validate you? To say that all along you were right? To come to your side and admit defeat? To accept the world as it is?" He was angry now, heat rising in his voice, energy building in his core. Nothing was true, he had learned that now, but perhaps _that_ was the most important lesson. He would not bow to this. No. "I will not," he vowed, pushing himself painfully to his feet, hand instinctively going to his side. "I will not!" he shouted to the cove, voice bouncing off the trees, reverberating, spreading into the air and charging it with the energy he felt: not anxiety or fear, or even anger. The energy he felt now was as he felt in prison: battered but strong, resolute, determined. He would not bow to this. Not now. Not _ever_. Even now, faced as he was with the truth of Haytham's cold words, he refused.

"Because I believe things can still change. Nothing may be true, everything I believed up to now may have been a lie, but that is only _half_ of the Creed. Everything is permitted, _Raké:ni_. Even hope. Even change. I may never succeed. The Assassins may struggle another thousand years in vain. But we will not stop. _I_ will not stop!"

He moved down the hill, into the trees and towards the water, away from the manor. Something in him was shifting, changing. His despair was morphing into something else as his thoughts began to crash back and forth in his head. Nothing was true, everything was permitted. The answers to all of his questions, the answer to his years-long trail of doubt and uncertainty, were all being swept away as the Assassin's Creed bloomed in his mind. This is what the Old Man had tried so hard to teach him – that the realities of the world could not be denied with fervent wish or native truths; the contradictions of the world and of the white man must be accepted for what they were, faced honestly and without a blind eyes. But in combination of that was the promise to effect change, to be what the world should be, to inspire others to be as that, to know the value of one's actions and foster such actions in others. That was the point of the Creed: to be what you wished to see in the world. This was his answer, this was his...

"Compromise," he whispered, stopping at the edge of the cliffs, the world in front of him. "That's what everyone has insisted upon. Sam Adams to prioritize people's rights; Washington to placate those around him; you, Father, to admit the defeat against principle. And so I have learnt it. But differently than most, I think. I realize now that it will take time, that the road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness. It is a road that will not always take me where I wish to go—and I doubt I will live to see its end. But I will travel down it nonetheless. For at my side walks hope. In the face of all that insists I turn back, I carry on: this, this is my compromise. This is my _Purpose_, Father, this is the Direction I will take to bring Order. I will show the doubters, the disbelievers, those lost in their own despair; I will show them by example that hope still exists, that change is still possible, and that nothing – not even despair – is true and that everything – even hope – is permitted."

And, just like that, the weight on his shoulders lifted, the depression bled away. He was not the boy he was, naive and unbending; he was not the teen he was, principled and unwilling to accept the world as it was; now he was a man, twenty-seven, who knew the limits of the world and the sacrifice necessary to change it. He knew the length of the road he walked – well, at least he knew it was never ending. The sadness was still there, the loss, the weight of everything that had happened to him, but now coupled with it was determination, resolution, and understanding. He would face this despair again, he would be hurt again – perhaps even worse than he had been hurt up to now – but he knew that he would be able to conquer it in turn.

He moved back up the hill, towards the manor. His side was hurting him, he clutched it in pain, but he was lighter now than he had been in a long time. He understood now, and accepted what he had learned. His eyes tracked to the two graves and the newer third, and he knew what to do.

Ratonhnhaké:ton moved back into the manor, fixing himself a small breakfast of dried fruit from the root cellar, building his strength for his next task. He pulled out a shovel from below and held the _Oniare'kó:wa_ in his hand, staring at the Great Snake that ate its tale, the treasure that had brought Haytham Kenway to this land and set all of these terrible events in motion. The Sky Goddess was right. It needed to be hidden, and it was a task he would do gladly, to prevent other people from repeating this tragedy.

And he knew just where to hide it.

He slung the shovel over his shoulder and stepped out of the house. It was midmorning now, the sun well into its climb up the sky. His side pricked at him, and he regretted the damage he was about to do, but he felt good about this decision. He paused, thinking, and moved back into the house, down the hall and out the front door. He looked at the _tamahaac_, Kanen'tó:kon's hatchet that they had buried into the post all those years ago – had it really been that long? The depression hit him to see the memory of his best friend, images flooding into his mind: riding to Boston, seeking counsel from Sam Adams, his best friend so uncomfortable with the world of the settler. The war would never be over, but this phase of it was concluded.

It was time to bury the hatchet and all the memories along with it.

He worked it out of the post painfully, his side threatening to bleed with the effort he exerted, the stitches threatening to rip apart. The hatchet was rusted with nine years or exposure, the wood worn and dried out, cracked and exposed. It was the effigy of himself and all that had been done to him. He carried it with him over his shoulder, as the shovel, and moved once more to the back of the house, down the slope and to the cliffs.

The graves, one of them was tilted forward, always hard to read. He knelt down, looking at the faded name: _Connor Davenport, 1748 – 1755_. This was what Father Timothy meant last year, at the service. The grave next to it: _Abigail Davenport, 1721 - 1755_. He had never put any thought to the names before, but now he understood just why Achilles was in such pain even on top of the loss of the Brotherhood, why he had struggled so much to lead when Shay Cormac was slaughtering them—

The painting. That he so feared to set eyes upon. Oh, Achilles...

That would be next, when his work was done. He would hang the painting exactly where it was supposed to go, honor the family.

He looked to the third grave, and at last he could speak.

"I never properly said goodbye to you," he said softly, kneeling down. He held his side carefully, preparing himself for a long conversation. He needed to explain: "I was not ready."

The words ran out. He was not sure where to even start, how to explain everything that had happened in the past year – more than a year now. "So here I am," he said awkwardly. "My father is dead, I never had the chance to tell you. He was at Fort George, and he nearly killed me. Charles is dead, now, too. So are all of the other Templars in this new country, all of them have been killed. The land you loved so much is free now, but the weight of my responsibilities never seems to diminish."

He sighed, softly, his side hurting him. "There is always something else that needs fighting for." He had seen the letters from his brotherhood delivered to the manor, more reports, more things to do. Slavery was still an enormous problem – not even Aveline could stop it, force of nature that she was, and the Kanien'kehá:ka were not the only ones burned from their lands and homes. It would never stop. "This is something you never warned me of," he accused, but there was no malice in his voice, "maybe because you thought I would have been deterred - you would have been wrong but I know you were not accustomed to that."

So much the Old Man had said had been right. Every prediction, every observation, every facet of human nature – even about his own people, even about himself. Well, not everything. He doubted Achilles would have predicted the answer he had come to, so convinced he was that Ratonhnhaké:ton would fall into despair as he had. He did not wish to dwell on that, there were other things he needed to say.

"Life carries on here," he said, looking back at the manor, and beyond to the village in the valley. "The people seem happy - they are certainly safe, at least for now. I will speak with them more as time moves on. I know Dr. Lyle will be cross with me again, and Father Timothy is determined to look after my wellbeing. He is a fine _akatoni_. Ellen and Prudence continue to be very close friends, and Hunter grows by the day. He is eight now, learning to read with the help of Father Timothy. Myriam and Norris are much closer now; their life is still a challenge but they have learned how to overcome together instead of separately. Dave has become a strong member of the community, and I am certain the time will soon come when he will be strong enough to speak with Ellen plainly. The Scotsmen are always getting into trouble, I know they are due for one of their fights soon, and Diane is a natural medicine woman under Dr. Lyle's hands."

It felt good, speaking to the Old Man. There was a smile on his lips that he wasn't expecting, a sense that Achilles wasn't really gone. For a moment there was a strong hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into the phantom touch, reassured as he had not been since Achilles' death. Like this, he could share everything, as he had as a child. And he did so.

"One of my brotherhood asked me something I have been struggling with," he said quietly. "What happens if - when - we win? When we stop the Templars? It is a question I certainly do not know the answer to, perhaps you did not either. But a little while ago I realized that what happens does not matter. What matters is what we do, and I've decided what I'm going to do. I've finally realized the truth of the Creed that you taught me. I am sure you would say that it took me long enough. I wish I had learned it a different way, one without as much pain, but I suppose the how is not as important.

"... I miss you," he said softly. "As I miss my mother. Whatever Haytham Kenway was, _you_ were my _raké:ni_ just as much as he. More so, even. I have known that since the hanging, but I never said anything because I was still so confused about Father. Now I can say it freely: _Niá:wen'kó:wa, Roiá:ner'kó:wa_. You are a _sachem_ worthy of more honor than I can give.

"I hope all is well with you, wherever you are."

He stood, stronger for his rest, his side hurting less. "I trust you enough that I will hide something with your son. I know you will keep it safe – a bother or not."

And so he set about his work, taking his shovel and beginning to dig. The late April air was warm, and his poor health worked him into a sweat quickly as he worked through the pain of the gaping hole in his side that was only partly healed. The earth was soft from recent rain, easy and pliable, and it was not long, perhaps an hour, before he reached the bottom of the grave. He pulled off the amulet. He would not disturb young Connor's rest by opening the coffin, instead he wrapped the trinket in a handkerchief and simply placed it on the weak wood. His task complete, he exited the grave and began the arduous task of moving the earth back.

When his work was done, he looked to the grave of his _roiá:ner_.

"Goodbye, Old Man," he said, "until it comes time for me to join you - then I will bother you once again."

And he moved on to his future.

* * *

Desmond's eyes snapped open as he realized he was out of the Animus. Woah... Just... _Woah... _He'd never experienced that before, never experienced what it was like to _realize_ the Creed, to have an epiphany of that magnitude. He and Altaïr had known the Creed their entire lives, and Altaïr relearned in slowly over the course of a summer. Ezio learned about it in spits and spurts reading the Codex and being inducted into the Guild, but Ratonhnhaké:ton... he just... it hit him like a sack of bricks, and he hummed with that feeling, and Desmond lingered in that wellspring of hope, as long as he dared, before he closed the partition.

Mind finally back where it was supposed to be, he looked around to see his father at his side. He had kept watch? Desmond smiled.

"I know where the key is," he said, sitting up quickly and swinging his legs to the ground.

William eyed his son before nodding. "Then let's go."

It was over a five hour drive, just under an hour to I90, and then four and a half across the length of Massachusetts, passing through Springfield, then Worcester, then edging around the metropolis of Boston and to Rockport. Shaun did most of the driving, Rebecca too busy masking their signatures and William updating all the teams on what they were doing. Desmond again had shotgun, the highway giving him white noise for his eyes as his mind compartmentalized all that Ratonhnhaké:ton had taught him. He touched the partition, reliving that speech over and over, his shouting to the waves and quiet conversation with Achilles. Those were deeply personal moments, he felt guilty, as always, looking at such intimate moments, but that _feeling_ was so strong, he couldn't ignore it, and he learned something new from his ancestors.

How could he pass this on to the next generation? How could he let others know what it was like? He'd tried on his phone messages; he pulled out the object and opened it up. There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn't bring himself with the others here. Maybe after...

Assuming he, they, lived that long.

He didn't trust Juno, not as far as he could throw her, but this was – literally – the only lead they had. There were no other options, this was the only chance they had.

He started giving directions once they entered the town. The river that had split the community had been filled in for a strip mall, but the inn was still there, now greatly expanded, and still called the _Mile's End_. He grinned at that, at the colonial architecture that that always been omnipresent in New England and now had personal meaning to him. Oh, it had been modernized, updated, but the lines were still there; Dutch colonials and their dormers, all the five-four-and-a-door designs. Was that the turnoff to the Freeman farm? He wasn't sure, everything had been filled in, flattened. Instead of a small series of houses existing in spite of an enormous forest, forest was now defined as packed houses and tourist locations, signs pointing to local landmarks, Bearskin Neck, Music Museum and Performance Center, etc. The turnoff was to a small town-owned museum, the manor looking nothing like it did, the land now well-manicured, the trees all cut away to a gorgeous view of the ocean, the smell of salt and sea wafting up even in the dead of winter.

It was dark now, almost one in the morning, and they all filed out of the van, Desmond walking with confident steps in the darkness. Ratonhnhaké:ton's partition was still partly open, he could feel the wealth of feelings that were attached to this place: learning, frustration, resentment, relief, _home_. His eyes moved of their own volition to the graves, still there after centuries, worn down with age, and he felt emotion in his chest to see Achilles' name on the marker before he closed his eyes and sealed off the partition more firmly.

"You did a good job, Old Man," he said, crouching down. "You don't have to look after it any longer. We'll take it from here."

A thought sprang up in his mind, he wondered where Ratonhnhaké:ton was buried. He loved this land as he had loved his village Kanathaséton, cared for all the villagers and wanted to see them happy. There was a dim memory of searching for a teacher that would fit, finding a sheriff instead, memories not yet explored. No, he could not touch them, leaving his ancestor to his privacy. Instead, he simply nodded his head to the grave. "_Niá:wen, Roiá:ner'kó:wa_."

"Yeah, no idea what you said," Rebecca said. "No subtitles."

"I was saying thank you to a great chief," Desmond said, wrapping his fist around a shovel. "Let's get this over with."

Shaun made a face in the moonlight. "Never thought we'd add grave-robbers to our repertoire of skills."

Everyone pitched in, starting first with a damn pickaxe to get through the frozen, packed earth. Once they were below the freeze line it was much easier. They shifted through the dirt carefully, mindful that the amulet key was small, working in the dark hours as clouds moved over the poor light of the waning moon. William eventually went to the van for lights, putting it in the hole they were digging to mask its illumination, before something in Desmond's mind _clicked_ and his shovel hit something firm. He crouched down, rubbing his hands through the dirt, First Civ DNA in his blood calling to him and guiding his movements before something brushed against his hand. He picked it up, fingers black with dirt, and straightened, turning to show it to everyone else. It held a faint glow, but no voices.

William wanted to pack up immediately, it was a long five hours back to the Temple, but Desmond insisted on reburying Connor Davenport, and Rebecca and Shaun both adamantly agreed. William said nothing, but the look he gave Desmond wasn't hard or judgmental, but soft and knowing.

They left at dawn, Desmond catching up on his sleep while William drove, and when he woke they were back, moving down underground, passed their camp, passed the Animus, passed the various paths he had taken to power up the Temple. The gate was _enormous_, obscenely so, and its cyan color reminded Desmond of how cold the Ones Who Came Before were. What was Juno planning? Would it really save the world? Or would it doom them?

"Guess this is it," he muttered.

A hand touched his arm, and he turned to see Rebecca, a soft smile on her lips. "We're right behind you," she said.

William nodded his head, encouraging. "Moment of truth," he said.

Desmond stepped forward, moving to the lock. As he did, the key started to glow brighter, actually tugging in his fist. He opened his hand to see it floating, moving imperceptibly towards the door. He gulped, once more in awe of First Civ technology, and licked his lips as he prepared himself for what he was about to do. He held himself still, contemplating the moment, and he put the key in the cyan lock. The energy door and source of light for most of the Temple increased in intensity, blinding everyone even with closed eyes, patterns shifting and moving before it simply... stopped.

Everyone shared a look before tentatively, tepidly, moving forward. The bridge was solid under their feet – to be expected for the ancients, Desmond supposed, and he tried to put some confidence in his steps as he moved into the unknown.

At the end of the bridge was more light, more cyan colors.

"_Yes..._" Juno's voice seemed to emanate from everywhere. "_Come... Here..._"

To everyone's left a black lacquered wall stood, the bridge led an off-centered path to the light. In the black wall was a door, completely innocuous, save that there was nothing else on this bridge. "What do you think?" he asked.

"_Come_..."

"I think that's where we're supposed to go," Rebecca said.

"What, not to the end of the road? Obviously, someone had a bad taste for metaphors."

William gave a withering look but he went in, Desmond and the others following.

Compared to the over-bright cyan light of outside, it was pitch black in here, and everyone waited for their eyes to dilate and adjust to the darkness. Deeper inside was a pedestal, Desmond could just make it out, with an orb set atop it. Unlike the Apple, it was bigger, with tiny protrusions instead of smooth grooves. There was no pattern on the orb that Desmond could tell, and he took a step forward to get a better look at it. In response, it lit up.

"_At last,_" Juno said, her hologram appearing. Her voice was smooth as it always was, accented and reassuring in a way that made Desmond slightly cold. "_You know our story now,_" she said. "_Of how we tried. Of how we failed. All our hopes extinguished. Save one._" She walked confidently up to the orb, parts of it cyan-white and others dark. She put a hand on the sphere, eyes locked on Desmond. "_Your touch,_" she said, "_a spark. A spark to save the world._"

What did that even—

"_Wait! Do not touch the pedestal!_" Everyone turned, surprised, and watched in morbid fascination as a new hologram entered the room, blowing past the others and blocking the sphere, a hand defensively over it.

"Minerva...?"

Juno was equally surprised. "_You..._" she muttered, "_But how? You _left_! You destroyed the device!_"

Minerva turned cold eyes to Juno, braid that reached down to the floor whipping heavily around. "_Did you think there was only one?_" she demanded, acid and contempt in her voice. What the hell was going on?

William echoed Desmond's thoughts. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded, looking to his son for answers.

"_You must not free her!_" Minerva commanded.

Wait, what? Free her?

"... Free her?"

"_Juno dwells within these walls, awaiting release,_" Minerva said.

"We figured as much," Desmond countered.

Minerva held up a hand. "_I will explain: While we worked to save the world, she sought, instead, to conquer it._" Minerva walked slowly around the orb, braid swishing back and forth, gesturing to Juno with disdain. She was taller, but thinner, less adorned save that gaudy headdress. She did not have the ethereal beauty of Juno, her face was too practical, but there was authority in her voice. "_She used our machines to set her plans in motion._" She moved around Juno, who was curiously still, eyes staring at Desmond with intensity.

"_Divination through numbers,_" Minerva continued, "_There is a pattern to existence. To comprehend the calculations is to tame time. This was my focus. And so I built the Eye to aid us. But she turned it towards her own ends._" She stopped to Desmond's right, gesturing her distain again, eyes lost in memory. "_When we discovered her treachery, we put a stop to it. And then we left._" She moved again, eyeing Desmond with the same intensity as Juno, gliding up to him and around him. "_But first we called to you,_" she said, "_That you might try again. We thought it would be safe with her gone, safe to give you the keys to rebuild civilization, to be free of our influence and able to reach heights such as ours. However your people were created, you are still people, and you had the potential to grow as we did, to live as we did, and to finish what we had started. With her gone, you could prevent that which destroyed us from destroying you. Now I see we were deceived._" She turned downright _hateful_ eyes to Juno, and Desmond was utterly unnerved. Those Who Came Before were always so removed, so emotionless, so closed off. To see this level of emotion brought them down to humanity's level: jealousy, petty rivalry, vendettas. They were not so godlike now, and Desmond's head felt like it was exploding trying to wrap his brain around it. "_She survived. She _endured. _And then she began to _work."

Juno finally ripped her eyes from Desmond, turning her intense gaze to her rival.

Minerva continued to explain. "_For centuries Tinia and I walked the world, hoping to rekindle the spark of civilization. We shared what we knew as best we could. We were not the only ones. But for all the power we wrought, still death would claim us. But before it did, I would have one last look to know if we had succeeded._"

Ah. "_That's how you're here now?_"

The goddess nodded. Moving again, completing her circuit around the pedestal. "_I had hoped you might find this place – and finish our work,_" she said, voice oddly gentle before it turned to disappointment. "_But it is too late. You and the Templars have squabbled over our refuse. You have wasted centuries. And so you have lost your chance. You cannot hope to stop the end now, Desmond. Only to survive it._"

Juno snapped to action at last, turning hateful eyes to Minerva and moving into her personal space. "_She's _lying_!_" she cried, before turning back to Desmond and locking eyes again. Her hands touched the orb. "_Only touch of the pedestal and the world WILL be saved._"

Minerva scoffed. "_Better the world burn than she be loosed upon it._"

Juno turned to give a scathing look. "_Is that so?_" she asked, voice dangerous. "_Show him, then,_" she ordered.

A grown brushed against Minerva's face. "_But he will not understand,_" she said.

"Jesus Christ not this again," Desmond growled. "I have had it up to here with your shit! Your cryptic messages, your assumption that it's so hard for us to understand! Tell me what that bitch is talking about!"

"_... It is complicated,_" Minerva said, as if trying to explain to a child. "_It is..._"

Desmond stood his ground. "Show me," he ordered.

A thin pressing of the lips, the barest of nods, and then everything _shifted_. Rebecca bit out a curse and he had the sensation of William ducking, and then nobody could see anyone, because they were watching the future in glorious detail. Desmond watched as the solar ejections shoved their way to earth, multicolored lights and screams of terror.

"_If you heed Minerva the sun will have its way,_" Juno said. "_The ground will crack and spit fire into the sky. All the world will burn._"

And it was exactly as she said: volcanoes erupted from nowhere – in the middle of cities, one after the other, a new Ring of Fire – Hawa'ii blew up, Fuji drowned Tokyo in lava, New York that was only just recovering from Sandy was split into pieces, Europe on fire and whole swaths of Africa flooded. It was horror, billions died.

"_But this does not end the world,_" Juno said, showing Desmond and the others coming out of the Temple, looking at the ruins of the planet, "_merely heralds its arrival. Darkness follows. Then you emerge..._" Desmond shifted, changed, the others disappearing and a beard filling his face, clothes now rough and handmade, solid earthy colors of a civilization pulling itself up from the gutter. "_You resolve to lay a foundation that such a tragedy does not befall the world again. You will become a symbol to those who survive: Hope. Knowledge. Determination. You will inspire them to rebuild. To thrive once more. And as the world heals, so too will humanity..._"

Fuck. What? _What_? Jesus Christ _what?_

"_But you are just a man. Frail and mortal. You pass from the world, leaving behind only a memory. A... legacy._" There were candles, men in robes – some hoods, some not, tabards and small forms of decoration, of office; the warm glow of fire leading to a box covered in a white shroud, flower petals, people praying over him. Holy shit... "_You will be remembered first as a hero. Later as a legend. And in time... As a god._"

Heed these words and you will be saved.

Turned viciously to:

Heed these words or perish as a heretic.

"_It is the cruelest fate. To have written words that meant well – and see them made wicked and unwise." _And there were fire-pits, cruel words engraved on the face of a book, raised above a priest's head, to inspire more hatred and persecution, the Crusades all over again. Juno's voice rose in passion. "_What was meant to _encourage_ life – used instead to justify _taking_ it!_

"_And so now you see,_" Juno concluded. "_That what was shall be again. So tell me: How is this _better_?_"

Christ. Jesus Christ.

He would turn into Jesus Christ – some random schmo who tried to teach people and turned into a cipher for unbending dogma and cultism, used to start wars and have his wishes perverted to the exact opposite of what he wanted. Jesus _fucking_ Christ! He was just a guy! Desmond no-account runaway-from-home bartender piece of shit! How the _fuck_ did he become the next _Jesus Christ_? He wasn't even noble, humble, even good-hearted; he swore, was a dick to his father, ran away from his problems, killed people, how was he worthy to become this? How did fate choose _him_? Because of his First Civ DNA? Because he lived the lives of Altaïr and Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton? Because he was born _fucking March thirteenth?_

_What was he supposed to do with this?_

Juno was in front of him now, black and gold eyes intense again. "_She would sacrifice you – sacrifice the _world_ – for no other reason than to deny me vindication._"

God, she made it sound so _easy_. Like Minerva was the bad guy and Juno just a helpless victim. Juno made him kill Lucy, there was no way to trust her!

Minerva stepped forward, refuting her rival. "_They will enslave your kind, Desmond. Is this not why you fight? Is this not why you came here? To ensure more than just your race's future, but its freedom? We made you to be ruled, yes, but many of us learned your value, we had children by you, we learned to love you as more than what you were. Many of us sought the freedom you all so desperately wanted, and now your chance at it will be _gone_, because _she_ does not value you as we do. She will create just as many deaths – what she is asking is only when and how: now, by the end, or later, under her rule. It is your future and freedom that make this the best decision._"

"_What future?_" Juno sneered. "_What freedom? Billions dead and the whole cycle begun anew? This world has known nothing but heartache and horror since we left it._"

"_Our gift to them,_" Minerva countered. "_They are free to learn, to make mistakes, to find their own way. How long did it take us to reach our greatest heights? How long did it take to learn the same lessons they must learn? And you'd see it all returned. For _what_?_"

Desmond had had it. "ENOUGH!" he shouted, startled by his volume, Rebecca jumping and Shaun taking a step back. "Both of you shut up!"

Minerva was insistent. "_You must not do this._"

But Desmond was past that, long past. He wasn't anything like a Christ, and he'd be damned if he left the world to see his ideas turned into bloodshed. He didn't want to be responsible for that, he didn't want to have that over his head, didn't want to live knowing that was his future. Maybe he was running away from his responsibilities again, maybe this wasn't the "right" decision or the "best" decision, but it was the one he was confident in making. Juno would be awakened. Fine. Juno wanted to take over the world. At this point, that was nothing new. But there was something neither goddess realized.

"Whatever Juno's planning," Desmond said, "however terrible it might seem today – we'll find a way to stop it." Assassins had proved over and over that they were resourceful, they came back and back no matter how many times they were destroyed. The Templars, too, had a knack for pissing off everybody by not staying dead. There was hope. Just like Ratonhnhaké:ton had said. And with hope, change. "But the alternative," he said, locking eyes with Minerva, "what you want... There's no hope there."

"_If you free her – you'll be killed. Destroyed._"

Juno was quick to equivocate. "_It will happen in an instant. There will be no pain._"

"_You mustn't!_"

Desmond held her gaze. "It's done, Minerva," he said. "The decision's made."

Her voice was watery in response. "_Then the consequences of this mistake are yours to live – and die – with._"

Desmond turned to his friends. His father. "You need to go. All of you. Now. Get as far away from here as you can."

Rebecca was wide eyed and shaking. "No," she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. "No. _No_. Not you, too! Not again! Desmond, you can't just...!"

"Shaun, get her out of here."

"Desmond..."

"_Shaun_. Look after her."

The Brit gave him a long, penetrating look, before he nodded and grabbed Rebecca by the waist.

"No! _No! Nooooo!_ I don't want to go through this again! I can't go through this again! Let me go! _Let me go!_ I have to stop it! Put me down! Nooooooooo!"

Her cried echoed off the walls, Shaun half dragging and half carrying her out of the dark room and down the bridge. Her cries were interspersed with sobs, and Desmond wondered if he had broken her for good. Could she ever recover from this? _Would_ she ever recover from this? But what else was there to do? Watching the world burn like Juno described... that would be so much worse, it was the lesser of two evils. He listened as Rebecca eventually broke to incoherent wails, and her voice faded, echoes still bouncing off the Temple. That only left his father.

William's face had more expression in that moment than any point in Desmond's life; he could pick out shock, fear, sadness, even confusion, all mixed together in an ugly mess. He reached out, grabbed his son's shoulder.

"Come with us," and he was _pleading_. "We'll find another way."

Desmond shook his head. "There isn't time."

The other hand grabbed him as well, as if the touch was not enough for William, as if he was afraid he would disappear before his very eyes. "Son..."

"You know it's true," Desmond said, quietly insistent. "It's already started. I need to do this now. Right now. Dad..." A lump rose in his throat, and his vision blurred, and he reached and hugged his father, squeezing as hard as he could, holding this memory and burning it into his mind. This was his last moment, he wanted it to count.

"I love you, Dad. Tell Mom I love her."

"Desmond..."

He let go before he lost his nerve, and gave a small push. "Go!" he said. "_Go_!"

William shuffled back, looking at his son, locking eyes, conveying... everything. Then he turned and ran out of the room.

Desmond turned to the pedestal, walking up to it, a hundred different thoughts and feelings and emotions running through him. His breath was ragged, his body shaky. He was going to kill himself. He was going to die for the sake of humanity, but he had no way of knowing if his sacrifice even _did_ anything other than wake up Juno. Did she want him to die, would he have stood in the way? Would she take his body and use it? Would she even do what she promised? Stop the sun from killing everyone? It was a gamble. A gamble with his _life_.

… Wasn't life always a gamble?

He took a breath, and hovering over the orb, and he placed his hand on it.

Electricity fire pain _unimaginable pain shaking screaming stop it STOP IT END THE PAIN GRAB THE HAND **CAN'T LET GO-**_

Silence.

A corpse slumped bonelessly to the floor.

And there was no more.

Only...

Only... …

"_أهلا وسهلا أخي_"

… What?

There were shadows, silhouettes, shapes he knew as intimately as he knew his own.

"_Ben fatto, fratello._"

He knew those languages, knew those faces, knew those people.

"_Skenen'kó:wa kenh, rikén'a?_"

They were all there, Altaïr and Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton and so many others, more than he could count and yet he knew them all, knew their names and their histories as well as he knew his own, he knew his ancestors and was humbled that they would welcome him. Ezio of course opened his arms wide, Ratonhnhaké:ton nodding shyly while Altaïr watched stoically, others moving in and around him: Flavia, Sef, Aquilus, Giovanni, Maria, Maria, Umar, Maud... all of them were there, and hands were on his shoulders and back, words all blurring together to a warm sound that left him feeling safe and loved.

And he was at peace.

* * *

"_...it's some sort of global aurora borealis..._"

"_...never seen anything like this before said Senator..._"

"_...eyewitnesses describe electrical storms and erratic displays of unusual weather... residents are being asked to remain _inside_ and wait for..._"

"_...geological surveys are now reporting seismic activity throughout the ring of fire... northeastern Canada is said to be experiencing the largest... on record..._"

"_...satellites and transformers are failing as the flare increases in intensity... Worldwide reports of blackouts and..._"

…

… …

"_...seems to be receding... Residual seismic activity and volcanic activity is being reported, but nothing approaching earlier levels... Obviously it will be a while before experts are able to assess the full extent of the damage caused by today's event. But it appears the worst is behind us... We'll be sure to bring you more as this story develops..._"

* * *

Juno looked down at the thing that had at last awakened her. Her energy was low, they had not found enough power sources, but it was enough. Now all she had to do was wait.

"_It is done,_" she told it, offering solace to a thing long gone. "_The world is saved. You played your part well, Desmond. But now... Now it's time that I played_ mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends.
> 
> Connor first. While we didn't full on BREAK our betas like we did in earlier chapters, Mirror was crying as she read the conclusion to Ratonhnhake:ton's story. For everyone who wanted us to use the hidden audio (that we DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY IT WAS CUT) that was so amazing: we did. And of course we expanded it for our own purposes like we did everything else. Ratonhnhake:ton never does anything by half measures (he's the penultimate American in that way), and that includes how he comes to learn the Creed. We wish one day that we have a game - or a DLC - that explores more of his life. We saw Ezio and Altair as mentors, and Connor deserves no less for what he's been through. His final conversation with Achilles is as heartbreaking as it is hopeful, and it's a wonderful place to leave him off.
> 
> Desmond, too, wanted to share those deeply intimate moments, but unlike Ratonhnhake:ton he gets interrupted from a massive exposition dump by Minerva and Juno. The pacing of his scene is terrible as a result, and that hurts because this is his big moment to shine. He makes up for it in the end though, as he hugs his dad and says his goodbyes. Those last few lines were amazing.
> 
> And now the world is set up for Black Flag and Unity and everything else that happens after. Rebecca is broken to little bits and takes a year to recover while Shaun struggles to find a way to honor Desmond's memory by going out into the field, William is an absolute wreck, and Juno is in the Gray. It's a good place to end.
> 
> This series was a labor of love. There was no great idea, no conversation that lead to a plot, no intense FEELING to rush to put on paper. This was just us, loving the world of AC and binge playing 1 through Brotherhood and wanting to experience it in any way we can. It grew into a time-consuming, research-driven, soul-sucking project that used up all of our creativity for several years, and has permanently rewritten how we write things: we don't write stories anymore, we novelize things we see, and we have to spend quite a bit of time rewiring our brains to be actually CREATIVE again. There were times where we just didn't want to write, Revelations was BORING if it wasn't an Altair chapter and all the time-jumps in any fic took teeth-grindingly long amounts of time because there was no inspiration to actually create.
> 
> For all the pain this project was, the end result was worth it. We are proud of what we have produced and are humbled at any review that expresses their love of this story. We started with 12(ish) reviews a chapter in AC1 and have dwindled down to almost none for the last several chapters, but the level of praise has always been consistent and high, and we love you guys for the feedback.
> 
> We're not done with AC fics by any stretch of the imagination - and any fic we write will likely be in "this universe" we have created, but nothing of the length seen here. We hope you enjoyed our overly-long, self-gratifying fic, and as always, let us know what you think.
> 
> Next chapter: Epilogue: George Washington marches to his doom.


	32. Epilogue: Birth of A President

George Washington found the November air chilly; he had learned the hard way at Valley Forge to dislike northern winters: snow did not fall in small quantities and melt, ice did not rain and muddy the roads as in Virginia. No, instead snow just... grew, inches and inches to feet and feet, begging for harvest. That one winter, almost three years ago now, had been miserable for a myriad of reasons, and the cursed season had not helped.

… The dreams had not helped either, and even some of his men had begun eying him, noticing his much darker eyes, his softer voice. He feared more dreams tonight, and he did not wish it. This was Evacuation Day, the British were loading their ships and finally leaving. He and the army stood at the edge of the city, waiting politely (if not always patiently) for their departure. One last dignity of honor: let them leave on their own terms. And now they had. But, of course, the British had not left with the dignity that he had offered; instead there were reports that one Union Jack still flew on a flagpole, and the pole had been greased to prevent removal. Domineering to the end.

Domineering... _Strong hand... leadi_ng a Republic... the title of _King_...

He shook his head, biting back a yawn.

"Sir, they're making cleats to climb the pole, sir," General Knox said, ever practical as the army's engineer. "Stars and Stripes will be up before they lose sight. Forgive me sir, if I feel that would be a pleasant spit in their eye as they retreat, sir."

"No man can deny his own feelings," Washington said softly. "Acting on them is another matter." For the good of the country, for the good of the people, one strong man in the center...

"Sir?" Knox asked, ever perceptive.

"Nothing, General," Washington said politely, shaking off the increasingly cloying feeling with a practiced but increasingly difficult shrug. "Let us at last ride into the city. It has been seven years since I was forced to leave it. Is the Fort at last empty?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Then let us move." He flicked his reigns and his white stallion shifted into a slow walk.

The mass of people was enormous, even with all the Loyalist refugees evacuated the city buzzed with humanity, the streets were filled with so many people _people you can lead people who will bow to you_ bowing to his army and waving and cheering. They were the impoverished and destitute, Tallmadge had sent many reports about the squalor of New York after the fire and the ruins that Patriots were forced to live in, the city left to rot as the Loyalists claimed everything else of value and sustainability. He had also heard of the neglect on the prison ships, how many men had died staggering because the Crown would not look after those honorably captured _you can do it differently show them what it means to be King_ and he felt only relief that the city was now at last free. They stopped at the northwest fort of the city, everyone now calling it Fort Washington in his honor, and shed their supplies there before a procession through the town was organized.

"Locals say the Brits just shot a cannon back at the city," someone reported. "Fell way short, final spit in the eye I'd wager."

"Foolish."

"Tyrants are what they are. Were, now."

_Lead them all... a republic cannot survive in a world with so many contending powers..._

Washington shook his head again, rubbing his eyes and holding in another yawn. He needed to smile for these people; he was a public face and he needed to play the part. He took a deep breath and put on a smile, waving as they moved through the streets, confetti being thrown out of windows, Broadway packed with people in rags pressing up against the procession to see the men who had fought for them. There were cheers, singing, dancing, shouting, drinking, so much positive energy the air was charged with it. The pomp and circumstance _all for you_ were touching and he felt it slowly push into him, waking him up and putting more authentic smiles on his face. A great accomplishment had been made, and he _did_ have a small _not small big know your place your place as King_ part in bringing it about. The good cheer was everywhere, and the men loved it as much as he did.

All except one.

His eyes snapped to the one still body in the crowd, one man who towered almost as much as he did over the others, white coat and the fierce frown that he always wore, always so serious and so determined, an inspiration as much as a mystery _it's him he would ruin it all kill him now before he knows what is to come_.

He had never had such an ill thought before, and he felt fear in his heart once again for the dreams he had and the things it made him think about. His gaze was locked, now, he saw the young man – no, not young, his eyes were so _old_ now – nodded, acknowledging that he had been seen. No... that he had _let_ himself be seen, one final visit to remind Washington of what principle _really_ meant, the example he set without even knowing it, the disapproval he felt when anyone failed to meet his impossibly high expectations.

His message sent, Connor turned and left, disappearing into the crowd.

The general nearly wheeled his horse, moving to chase after him – before he remembered his place and went back to smiling and waving, pleasing the people who were already so pleased with him.

* * *

It was well after midnight before his men sent word on where Connor was, and an hour after that before he was certain he was alone and could leave his position. He changed out of his uniform, putting on regular clothes and ducking his head into a bucket of water, washing most of the powder out of his hair. He could not hide his size, but looked different enough now that walking a horse out of the fort would make little notice, and soon he was riding through the streets. He was not completely sure what compelled him, he could barely trust his own mind the last few weeks, but something about seeing _Connor_, _here_, sparked something deep inside him _he will end you ruin your plans kill him now_. He tried to shake the feeling off again, it was growing stronger and stronger, he feared he would succumb to such thoughts that he did not _feel_ were right, and he pushed his horse into a gallop. He was unsurprised to find Connor in the forest, half Indian as he was, he likely felt more comfortable in the wilds than civilized world of the cities.

Though, he corrected himself, New York City as it was now was hardly a paragon of civilization. And Connor hardly deserved such an ignorant thought, when he had spoken so eloquently and articulately at Valley Forge; he had clearly been educated and was comfortable with the ways of the white man. The Sullivan Expedition had left him sleepless for weeks, thinking of Connor and the effect his decision would have on the boy, but he had no other solution to stop the raids, and with their alliance so broken to begin with after meeting Mr. Kenway...

_He is your enemy he never liked you he will destroy you remove him and take your rightful place as KING_.

He spurred his horse.

The boy obviously heard his arrival, was already standing at his camp, fire pit dug and glowing with warmth in the cold air, black mare tied to a tree branch. Washington dismounted and stood, awkwardly waiting for some kind of greeting, but at always the half-Indian was reticent. "Connor," he greeted instead.

"... Commander Washington." Neutral voice, neither warm nor cold, cautious but open to conversation.

_KILL HIM NOW. BE THE NEXT KING._

His body stiffened with the command, face losing all color, before he shook his head again. "I am..." he started. How in the name of Providence could he explain this? Who would _believe_ it? But Connor was as much mystery as man, and there were hints that the world he lived in was vastly different than the commander's, and he hoped it was different _enough_. "I am attacked by a new enemy," he said, the only way he could express what was happening to him. "I fear I will succumb."

Connor's eyes narrowed, his vision always so clear even in the face of despair. "What has come over you?" he asked. He frowned, pursing his lips. "Perhaps you should sit and tell me the problem." He gracefully dipped into a sitting position on the frozen earth, gesturing Washington join him. The commander's moved to a stone_ be above him you are above him know your place as King_. He pushed his face into his palms, rubbing up and down, trying to shake off the feeling. He was so _tired_...

"I do not know what's happened," he said, hurt that his voice sounded as drained as he felt; he could usually mask his ill ease when speaking to others, it was a critical skill when dealing with Congress and bargaining his way into getting what he needed _do not bargain do not beg be the leader be the King get what you desire_. "It's..."

He pulled his hands away, casting a bleary gaze to the half-Indian. Connor said nothing, gave away nothing, absolutely wooden. He was so envious at that moment he was nearly blind with it _KILL HIM NOW_. He shook again, and words spilled out of his mouth. "It's the dreams. They're driving me mad..."

"I never thought you were a man that would be disturbed by dreams," Connor said. His voice was still so ominously neutral, but at the same time there was rebuke there, perhaps an unconscious jibe at the decisions he had made as commander. He could not deny the difficulty of many of the decisions he had made during the war – war was never meant to be _easy_, there was rarely a clean-cut right and wrong, the modern world was not the fables of antiquity, it was a complex menagerie of ideas and opinions and goals _and you can unify them all_ and it required delicate skill to navigate and find the path best suited for _YOU you are the best path can make everything better for_ the people. Certainly he had many dreams of his mistakes: the Braddock Expedition hurt him even now, he could hardly speak of his failures there and his feelings over the loss of the general. But Connor was right, _normal_ dreams did not disturb him – not to this level. How could he even explain?

"You must understand," he said, "They beguile me with fantastical visions. In my dream, I'm at Mount Vernon during the war. In fact, there _is_ no war. I stay with Martha, tending my fields, peaceful and content."

"It sounds like paradise."

"No," he insisted, "they don't stop there, the peace of the vision pushes me to..." He could not believe he was saying any of this aloud, speaking of it to a half-Indian whom he barely knew, spilling the darkest parts of what was happening to him. "It is unspeakable," he said at last, shaking his head again, numb to the warmth of the fire. "The things that happen, the things I do... And yet there is a sense of rightness about them that I cannot shake, and sense that this is how the world can be better. No more politicking with the Congress, no more fighting for food and clothing for the men, no more uncertainty about my reputation and how I'm running the war... Everything in its place, Order, Purpose, all moving in one Direction..."

He saw Connor stiffen at the words but control any other reaction. Something in what he said stirred a reaction out of the wooden Indian, and Washington was both glad and disturbed _he knows he knows he is a danger_ and he stretched his boots out, trying to get warm. Why could he not feel the fire?

"Where did you hear such words?" Connor asked.

Washington opened his mouth to find the words die in his throat, his body stiffening against his will and the weight of... _it_... pressing into his back. Breathing became hard, he saw Connor lean forward in concern and curiosity both; and he reached jerkily, slowly, behind his back and pulled out... _it_.

"I believe..." he forced out, voice tight and words hard to form, "the visions come from this."

And he held it out.

Connor was immediately on his feet, face a storm of emotions: hurt, confusion, fear, anger, none of them positive _KILL HIM NOW BEFORE HE TAKES IT_ and he held an accusatory finger forwards, pointing at the commander.

"Where did you get it?" he demanded, all neutrality in his voice gone, replaced with firm command, the voice he held when directing his young Virginian rifleman at Trenton.

"It was taken from a captured officer in Yorktown," the commander said, body locked in place and fighting for words. "There was something compelling about it, so I kept it on my person. It's strange, for I cannot remember that officer's face." The rest of that day was crystalized in his mind: the siege, the attacks on all the redoubts, the bombardments, the drummer and the officers with a white handkerchief moving through the smoke – a stark image he would never forget – the negotiations not only with the British but the French as well, signing the capitulation, making General O'Hara – not General Cornwallis, turn his swords of office over to Benjamin Lincoln as comeuppance for the American's humiliation at Charlestown, watching them march away with flags furled, muskets upside-down in shame, _The World's Turn'd Upside Down_ filling the air from the drummers and fifes. He doubted he would ever forget any of it, and yet the face of that officer was empty from his mind, only the red coat, the tricorn hat, a voice that had said... said... something.

Connor was staring at the object with such intensity it seemed his eyes glowed in the firelight. Thoughts were running back and forth with such quickness Washington had no hope of naming them, only know that the young Indian knew well what this object was and the dangers it possessed.

"May I see it?" he asked, hand lifting.

_NO DO NOT LET HIM TOUCH DO NOT LET HIM SEE DO NOT LET HIM RUIN EVERYTHING_

Against his will, Washington shied away, shielding it from the young Indian.

Connor froze, hands lowering, his intense gaze now focused on the commander.

"You are not thinking clearly," he said firmly, an order _HE CANNOT ORDER YOU no one can order you you are KING_ that Washington wanted to rile at, being a commander for so many years, but he knew that even as a commander of an army he answered to men: _his_ men, the Congress, the public, the French, he was not and was never in a position to give orders to _all_ people, only _some_ people _you can order them all you know this to be true_.

He worked his jaw, forcing his body to submit to his will _let all submit to your will_, saying, "You are right. It is the dreams that come from this... this Apple, that put thoughts in my head such as I had never considered before. Help me..."

He was frozen again, unable to move, thoughts in his mind that were not his own, and Connor reached out and touched the Apple.

_So many faces so many voices so many changes Sam Adams the beloved Benjamin Franklin Israel Putnam back at his side young Jefferson always a bright mind a Pyramid a cape a crown and DEEDS so many deeds and depravities and resistance destroy the resistance fight the fools who don't understand there is Connor dressed in skins like the savage he is come to kill him take the Apple rule for himself under its spell compel the minds of men what an interesting idea what would you do help the people is that not what I do you cannot kill me I HATE WHAT YOU STAND FOR YOU CANNOT—_

The light burst from their hands, the Apple fell inert to the ground, and Washington was gasping for air, still be-spelled by a world not his own. His entire body was shaking and his emotions were wroth with feelings he had not thought himself capable of feeling. He was somehow surprised to find himself outside among the trees instead of the Pyramid, surprised to see a simple campfire, surprised to see—

_Connor_.

Anger boiled inside him, and Connor stood straight, ready to defend himself, before the last of the spell evaporated.

Washington sank to the ground, now thankful for the chill, he was certain he was fevered after such a terrible vision – the things he had _done_... that the Apple bade him do...

He looked at the object, and terror filled him. To be King... such a thing was a sin to all of Nature. For _him_ to be King... never. _Never_. He would never _dare_ bring such a world about. No. He was done.

"Commander?"

He looked up, Connor was still standing, in his white wool coat, watching him with a critical eye, eyes that still chilled him as they had in the vision.

The terror of those eyes pushed him to his feet – he knew Connor now, better, perhaps, than he had any right to know, knew what he was capable of, knew the lengths he would go to, the things he would sacrifice, to do what was right. Connor was everything Washington wished he could be: upright, honorable, principled, moral, everything he strived to be, reached for every day, Connor simply _was_, with every fiber of his being. Providence had gifted the world with the existence of Connor, and Washington would be an ill-begotten _idiot_ not to heed the boy's – the _man's_ – advice.

"Take it," he whispered, terrified. "Take it from me. I do not want it."

Connor shook his head. "No man should possess a power so absolute."

Washington was done, done with the Apple, he refused to ever set his mind to it again, he would _die_ before he became a victim of its abuses. Never, he would _never_ let that happen, not if it was in his power. It belonged in no one's hands. It did not belong in this _world_... "Sink it into the sea," he suggested, "Weigh it and sink it to the bottom-most reaches of the ocean." He mounted his horse, running away from such a cursed object, determined to put as much distance between himself and it as possible. Connor would handle it, and handle it well as he always did.

He galloped back into the city, back to the fort – Fort Washington, what an arrogant name – and bid himself to bed, willing himself to sleep and pray that all of this was little more than a dream.

* * *

A week later he gave a short but emotional farewell to his officers – he had already formally said his goodbyes to the troops at the beginning of November – and he was walking along the Battery Park to clear his mind before riding south to the Congress. The visions of the Apple still haunted him with their possibilities, he understood his place now as the Apple had likely _not_ intended.

The December air was cold, but there was a lightness in his steps. The war was over now, he was free of his duties, and he learned not to pursue more. How was Martha doing, he wondered. Would she believe the things he had to say, the experiences he had lived through? Would she believe Connor, whom she had met but briefly, to be as much as he was?

Ah, speak and he appears.

"Connor," he said.

"Commander," the warrior said, ever serious, "It is done."

And suddenly the weight was now completely off his shoulders. There was nothing else to worry about after this. Soon he would be able to sleep truly, without fear of haunting, and all of this terrible affair would fade away to history.

"You have what you set out for," Connor said softly, his sandy tenor only carrying to the former commander's ears. "The country is free to do as it will, the British are gone, and the tyranny has ended. What will you do with it?"

"A fair question," Washington said. "I was just thinking of that. But if truth be told, I do not know. Men with far greater minds than mine will build this country's foundation, a task I am simply not equipped for, as you and I both saw. Have you played bocce before? I'm really growing quite fond of it. I think I'll have a green built in Mount Vernon when I return. Martha will be glad for the distraction, I think, and I know she will be happy to have me back permanently. I fear she is a greater Patriot than I, willingly subjecting herself to such loneliness and allowing me to run the army as I did. I owe the most to her, and look forward to the private life I gave up to serve my country."

He watched Connor rankle, eyes bulge briefly in anger and sucking in a large breath through his nose. "All that death and sacrifice and you mean to leave the important tasks to 'better men' while you play games?" He accused. Then he snorted. "I might have expected it."

The tone surprised the former commander; he would have thought the young warrior glad that he was leaving public office, glad he would not pose a danger to the people he and the Indian had fought for so passionately. "Connor – " he started to say, but was cut off with a hand.

"Whether you think you are worthy or capable of the task is of no consequence," Connor lectured, face hard and unyielding, a little of the warrior he saw in the vision bleeding through. "What you seem to have forgotten is you were chosen, for good or ill, and you have done _much_ in this war. After the things you have done... after the things _we_ have done to ensure this outcome: the people we lost, the sacrifices we made, the pieces of ourselves that were torn out of us to ensure victory, after all of that pain you should not have the _luxury_ of peace. _I_ do not, because _I_ understand my duty to my people, and I will gladly bear that burden even now that they have abandoned their home. I do my duty to protect those around me, to protect those who do not know me, to show others what a better world truly looks like. I will be the change I wish to see in the world, regardless of how much more is torn from me, because it is the right thing to do. Because it will bring justice. Do _you_ know what the right thing to do even is? Do you know what you did wrong in the war, did you learn from the mistakes you made? Did you try to better yourself?

"Instead you tell me you will leave it all behind and tend your farm, as if none of this has ever happened. What gives you that right? What makes you think you can live peacefully after all the things you have done, not the least of which you did to my own people?"

"Connor, after what we both saw, how can I possibly... ?"

"You deserve nothing less than running the country you have helped to birth," Connor said. "Perhaps then you will understand that responsibilities are not to be abandoned when one menial task complete, but rather carried for the rest of one's life."

Washington disagreed, strongly, but he knew of no political charm that could sway a man such as Connor, and knew better than to try. He understood Connor's point of view, and privately grieved that the young Indian had lost as much as he had just admitted, but the Apple still haunted his mind, showing him what he would do with power if he was not careful. No, leadership was not meant for him, he would ruin such an honor – such a responsibility – he knew better than to pursue such a thought. Temptation was a Sin, and he would never submit to its graces again.

He left New York the next day, taking a long and circuitous route through the states, one long parade of parades, luncheons, flag-raising ceremonies, celebrations, dinners, parties, all in his honor, an honor that he did not deserve. In that, at least, he agreed with Connor, he did not deserve such pomp and circumstance after what he had done, and what he had been shown _capable_ of doing, but he tolerated it dutifully – perhaps mindful of Connor's words, until he appeared nearly a month later, December 23, to the Congress in Annapolis.

He was sitting at a table, late afternoon sun saturating the room, preparing a short statement to the Congress before he turned over his swords and commission, hoping to convey everything he wanted in as few words as possible. He was but forty miles from home, Martha had waited long enough...

"Commander Washington."

The _former_ commander looked up, surprised. A figure stood in front of the window, cast entirely in silhouette. He frowned, casting his gaze about the office. "I thought I was alone," he said slowly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the man said politely, his face lost in shadow.

"It's quite all right," Washington replied in courtesy, feeling something stir in his heart.

"Things appear to be at... a stalemate." Washington frowned, uncertain what the man was referring to. Congress? The French? Something else? The man turned to the window, and Washington realized he could not make out the color of his cloak, the cut of the cloth. Who was this person? "Might I suggest, Commander," the man said, "that a republic cannot survive in a world with so many contending powers."

The words chilled him, words he had heard over and over since Yorktown. Words that... "I beg your pardon?" he asked, hoping he had misheard.

"Elected bodies, to be sure," the man, no, the phantom said quickly, placatingly, "The war was fought for this. But for this nation to prosper, for this nation to thrive, the weakness of a republic must be balanced by a powerful man at its center. A powerful man, Commander, who, if... if I may be so bold, would be elevated in the eyes of the world if he were given the title of King."

Rage stirred in his chest, at realizing he was being tested. He breathed in quietly, calming his mind, centering himself, mindful that yelling now with the Congress outside would hurt the image he had spent so long cultivating, trying to live by, the image Connor crystallized.

"Sir," he said softly, putting his hands on the desk and lifting himself from his seat. "I believe I can answer you in complete candor. Your proposal raises the greatest mischief that can befall my country. You could not have found a person to whom your schemes are more disagreeable. Let me caution you then, if you have any regard for your country, concern for yourself or posterity, or respect for me ... to banish these thoughts from your mind; never communicate, as from yourself, or any other specter you send, a sentiment of the like nature. It will fall on deaf ears, and indeed will make those in power very wroth. We have fought a war to stop the very proposal you have just submitted to me, and so I will turn you away only this once."

A blink and the phantom was gone, having never existed in the first place. He could feel, however, something receding from his mind, and his head dropped as a headache instantaneously formed.

"Connor," he mumbled, slouching into his seat. "Please know that I am doing my duty as best I can."

* * *

Six years later he would think back on Connor's sentencing: to run the country he had birthed to learn responsibility, as he rode to what he was certain was his funeral: President of the United States.

Providence, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

He imagined seeing a white coat on the road, watching his ride. The thought made him sit upright in his saddle. "Well, Connor," he muttered. "Whether you believe it or not, I will do my duty diligently."

And he became the stuff of legends.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most brain-breaking conceit the two of us have when it comes to time traveling are: time travel (which makes us hypocrites because we like Dr. Who - but they don't even try to take it seriously so it gets a pass) and "it was all a dream." To start the Tyranny of King Washington we were asked to accept that the ENTIRE AC3 GAME WAS A DREAM. Our brains broke and we had so much trouble trying to come to terms with it we never finished the dlc. It was the first and so far, only time we didn't 100% a game - dlc and all. We have since read and seen enough of the dlc to respect it for the alternate history that it is, but... damn it what the hell?
> 
> Then it occurred to us: It is true the Washington was more than despondent over being elected, wrote that he was riding to his funeral. In history this was because he was acutely aware that every single thing he did would set a precedence: how to greet people, how to address Congress, every decision would be dissected in history, etc, and he wanted no part in it. Of COURSE he would be reluctant, he had the vision of the Apple to terrify him. Then it all made sense and we were able to write this.
> 
> And no, George, you totally DID see Connor on the road, watching you ride to your doom. That's just the sort of thing he would do now that he's a master assassin.
> 
> And so we're done. Not with fanfiction, not with the AC franchise, but with this series. We hope you enjoyed.


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